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 Mar 2014 Anna Brown
Anne Sexton
Watch out for power,
for its avalanche can bury you,
snow, snow, snow, smothering your mountain.

Watch out for hate,
it can open its mouth and you'll fling yourself out
to eat off your leg, an instant *****.

Watch out for friends,
because when you betray them,
as you will,
they will bury their heads in the toilet
and flush themselves away.

Watch out for intellect,
because it knows so much it knows nothing
and leaves you hanging upside down,
mouthing knowledge as your heart
falls out of your mouth.

Watch out for games, the actor's part,
the speech planned, known, given,
for they will give you away
and you will stand like a naked little boy,
******* on your own child-bed.

Watch out for love
(unless it is true,
and every part of you says yes including the toes),
it will wrap you up like a mummy,
and your scream won't be heard
and none of your running will end.

Love? Be it man. Be it woman.
It must be a wave you want to glide in on,
give your body to it, give your laugh to it,
give, when the gravelly sand takes you,
your tears to the land. To love another is something
like prayer and can't be planned, you just fall
into its arms because your belief undoes your disbelief.

Special person,
if I were you I'd pay no attention
to admonitions from me,
made somewhat out of your words
and somewhat out of mine.
A collaboration.
I do not believe a word I have said,
except some, except I think of you like a young tree
with pasted-on leaves and know you'll root
and the real green thing will come.

Let go. Let go.
Oh special person,
possible leaves,
this typewriter likes you on the way to them,
but wants to break crystal glasses
in celebration,
for you,
when the dark crust is thrown off
and you float all around
like a happened balloon.
nobody gives a **** about me
but that's okay
because i don't care about them anyway
so it works out nicely.

i talked to a boy
with blue eyes today on the phone
its his birthday
and he told me stories about home
and i find i only ever
find reassurance in his voice.

he was the only one walking me home
as we swayed from midday gulps of *****
our legs itchy and imprinted
with the echoes of laying on grassy hills.

he would watch me smoke cigarettes
and look at the sun filtering through the smoke
as we ate a pint of cherry vanilla ice cream
and broke the spoon.

he'd watch as i destroyed myself and breathed in my
recklessness as though it were oxygen,
he'd always be there beside me
when i would balance on top of the small
awnings over the tall bridge,
and wait for the wind to knock me down into the raging
river below.

i wan't to cry and shed off this mortal skin
so i can sleep peacefully in my pajamas
of rattling bones
in some sort of paradise away
from
this tiresome earth.

i am too vast to be squeezed into this small
body

please sing me to sleep.

"remember when we used to bury worms
in the ground like a funeral
because it was the most contradictory thing we could do?
burying something that thrives in the earth like its dead,"

when he said goodbye,
he said i love you
and i said i love you too
because it was the most natural thing
i could do.
there are worse things than
being alone
but it often takes decades
to realize this
and most often
when you do
it's too late
and there's nothing worse
than
too late.
the history of melancholia
includes all of us.
me, I writhe in ***** sheets
while staring at blue walls
and nothing.
I have gotten so used to melancholia
that
I greet it like an old
friend.
I will now do 15 minutes of grieving
for the lost redhead,
I tell the gods.
I do it and feel quite bad
quite sad,
then I rise
CLEANSED
even though nothing
is solved.
that's what I get for kicking
religion in the ***.
I should have kicked the redhead
in the ***
where her brains and her bread and
butter are
at ...
but, no, I've felt sad
about everything:
the lost redhead was just another
smash in a lifelong
loss ...
I listen to drums on the radio now
and grin.
there is something wrong with me
besides
melancholia.
the flesh covers the bone
and they put a mind
in there and
sometimes a soul,
and the women break
vases against the walls
and the men drink too
much
and nobody finds the
one
but keep
looking
crawling in and out
of beds.
flesh covers
the bone and the
flesh searches
for more than
flesh.

there's no chance
at all:
we are all trapped
by a singular
fate.

nobody ever finds
the one.

the city dumps fill
the junkyards fill
the madhouses fill
the hospitals fill
the graveyards fill

nothing else
fills.
bitter white pills
stolen from the nurses office
crushed on the rocks,
merciless shores
of my craggy, gnashing teeth.

swallow it down
with purple liquid and
gag at the crude
astringent taste
like a fine powder
of dandelion leaf
burdock root
twisted hell.

floating down the hallway,
words jumbled and crumpled
thrown away paper
lodged in the crevices of my throat,
hacking it out with a nicotine
kissed cough.

i've got four more pills in my pocket,
but i'm craving ten.
"i bet you're loud in bed."

**** right i am,
i'll make the plaster shake down on your
quaking body
and scream my pleasure so it fills every
empty space in our skin.

i'm not afraid to be a *****
because the only thing
quite as firm and unforgiving as my heart
are my legs.
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