A poem read in the style of Ted Hughes as portrayed by Daniel Craig in the film* Sylvia.

Stop standing in the middle of rooms, Sylvia,
it’s ridiculous.

Stop staring wistfully out of windows, Sylvia,
you’re wasting your life.

Stop putting your hair down like that, Sylvia,
you look more unhinged every day.

Stop mumbling about bees, Sylvia,
it’s not healthy.

Stop ripping up bits of paper, Sylvia,
you’re making it messy.

Stop talking to that old man, Sylvia,
he doesn’t look right.

Stop burning all the clothes and books, Sylvia,
it’s not good.

Stop baking all those cakes, Sylvia,
they’re strange.

Stop being really still and staring, Sylvia,
it’s scaring the kids.

Stop waiting up for me, Sylvia,
you need to sleep.

for Sylvia Plath
O Sylvia, Sylvia,
with a dead box of stones and spoons,
with two children, two meteors
wandering loose in a tiny playroom,
with your mouth into the sheet,
into the roofbeam, into the dumb prayer,
(Sylvia, Sylvia
where did you go
after you wrote me
from Devonshire
about rasing potatoes
and keeping bees?)
what did you stand by,
just how did you lie down into?
Thief --
how did you crawl into,
crawl down alone
into the death I wanted so badly and for so long,
the death we said we both outgrew,
the one we wore on our skinny *******,
the one we talked of so often each time
we downed three extra dry martinis in Boston,
the death that talked of analysts and cures,
the death that talked like brides with plots,
the death we drank to,
the motives and the quiet deed?
(In Boston
the dying
ride in cabs,
yes death again,
that ride home
with our boy.)
O Sylvia, I remember the sleepy drummer
who beat on our eyes with an old story,
how we wanted to let him come
like a sadist or a New York fairy
to do his job,
a necessity, a window in a wall or a crib,
and since that time he waited
under our heart, our cupboard,
and I see now that we store him up
year after year, old suicides
and I know at the news of your death
a terrible taste for it, like salt,
(And me,
me too.
And now, Sylvia,
you again
with death again,
that ride home
with our boy.)
And I say only
with my arms stretched out into that stone place,
what is your death
but an old belonging,
a mole that fell out
of one of your poems?
(O friend,
while the moon's bad,
and the king's gone,
and the queen's at her wit's end
the bar fly ought to sing!)
O tiny mother,
you too!
O funny duchess!
O blonde thing!

Sylvia, don't cry.  
Come and sleep next to me in this grassy field.
Our knees touching like two knobby parentheses
cupping words whispered between us at 3 am.
Vulnerable.
Venerable.
My dearest sister in arms.
And if it makes you happy
we could talk about literature and Gods and good art and tea and faithless fathers and lovers.

Sylvia,  don't cry.
Scream at me if it makes things okay.
Curse at the yellow moon hanging in the starless sky like a gold pendulum.
Break all the mirrors and wall clocks.
But don't run after a train that has already left that foggy station.

Sylvia, don't cry.
Stop scraping the answers to your sorrows off that crusty oven floor.
Go, open the kitchen window.

Sylvia, don't cry.
Next time the phone rings during dinner
Rip out the ******* cord
And choke that soulless *******.

Sylvia, don't cry.
Find a ladder and climb the frigging tree
Stuff your mouth with purple figs
until your belly aches.
Don't wait for them to fall on the ground.
Keep eating.

Sylvia, don't cry.
Slice their throats with your cursive knives
When men say
that a girl poet must bleed on the quill she writes with.
Smear your cheeks with their blood.
Battle paint.
My brave Amazonian.

Sylvia, don't cry.
I know at times
it feels as if your spirit is trying to
climb its way out of your own body
Stop swallowing stones to weigh it down.
Hold my hand.
It'll get better, I promise.

When Sylvia Plath first met Ted Hughes, she bit his cheek so hard that blood oozed from his skin.
I want to believe I made an impression like that on you.
(Not the first time, when I was fourteen, because I was awkward with too much eyeliner and not enough ideas)
I marked you, on your bones, beneath skin where only I could see it.
(Beneath layers and layers and layers, so I could
fit comfortably. A parasite)
Sylvia and Ted married quickly,
but the idea of marriage terrifies me,
but I want to be with you forever,
(and yet I don’t)
Sylvia loved Ted.
and I love you. too much. so much.
(my chest deflates when I think about
empty beds)
please do not leave me, like Ted left Sylvia.

do not find muses, inspirations,
but since I am the writer, I need to find my muse.
(you are my only one)



I think Sylvia and Ted shared writings,
but I cannot show you most of my words,
for the truth would burn, and I wouldn’t know
how to put out the fire.
but Ted was a writer, you are not.
so I will be like Sylvia, writing about people I love,
until it consumes me
entirely.

Death was not unfamilar to me. I'd killed my share of things classified as monsters. I wasn't complaining really, my job kept the humans safe. I just felt guilty, I was practically a monster myself. They call us Warriors of the night, we're not Vampires, we are born with extra strenght and a long life span. I was born a long time ago, I was raised to **** monsters that terrorize the human race. Since I was six, I'd been trained to ****. I was a killing machine, best of my kind. Yet somehow, even though what I do is considered an honor, I don't feel proud. I've been doing my job much to long, and lately I'd began getting sloppy with my work. God knows Rowan would be one ****** of boss if he heard about me letting the group of baby Werewolves. I wasn't a complete heartless ******* to **** a bunch of babies.
    I might've been two years ago, before the whole incident happened. I layed my head in my hands, I couldn't go there, not now. I needed a clear head. My small apartment in Master Singu's house was getting messy. I hadn't had time to clean lately with all of the monster attacks that had been popping up lately. Ghouls, Goblins, Oni, Ogre, you name it and it's been attacking. Wasn't much we could do with the Banshee, they were more of a signifier then a monster. A signifier of death, and usually they gave me a heads up if the person who's house it's been surrounding, is gonna die. Banshee were cruel looking creatures, never gotten to close to one, they make **** sure of that. Not sure I ever want to. They were ruled by the one and only, Death. And i will gladly stay as far from death as possible. Haven't heard too many good things about him. Death is one of the Four horsemen. Scariest ******* in the underworld, and I would gladly never meet any of deaths brothers or sisters, what ever the gender their welcome to stay away. There was a soft knock on my door, io glanced at the clock on the wall, it was already three. Warriors worked night shift basically, since thats the time most monsters like to come out.
    The victorian styled door was a black cherry carved wood, with a ancient symbols carved in so no evil spirit couls cross into my apartment, so I wasnt worried any monster was at my door. But I was suprised to see Cameron when I opened the door. Cameron and I used to work the nights together until he'd gone off and gotten married to Sylvia, who was a vampire. Vampires were only considered monsters when they didnt follow the rules. No feeding off of unwilling people, only donors, and they couldnt go around killing people. Their biggest rule though was not to tell any human what they were, Warriors like me had a lot of people to execute.
   "Cameron, never thought I'd see you around here anymore," just as I was talking to him I realized, Cameron looked scared and desperate. Unlike someone who spent his life killing evil monsters that were twice the size of him. " What's wrong Cameron?" He shook his head and walked past me, through the door and into the living room. "It's Sylvia, Theon please help me," Camerons voice was going all thick and his eye's all watery. This was deffinetly something bad. " Tell me, what has happened with Sylvia?" I needed Cameron in his most focused form to help me out, but as I looked at the shaking man I knew he was beyond that. " You remember the king vampire we took down to save Sylvia?" Cameron said quitely, but I knew instantly what vampire he was talking about. That vampire had killed Abelia. I quickly swept that from my mind and focused back on Cameron. " Yes I remember, "  I had no idea where Cameron was going with this. " You remember his brother than, the one that got away, he said that we would both pay. He, ah, made you pay that day. I never thought that he would carry out with his threat. He kidnapped Sylvia, and Sylvia is pregnant, " Cameron almost lost it right there.
    I never thought that, pip squeak of a vampire had it in him, but he was smart and possesed powers we hadn't known about until we had come across them. Their king that we had slayed, had been capturing girls of all species and abusing them in such barbaric ways.
We had to put an end to his affairs, and we did but his brother wasn't too happy about it. He'd done one of his tricks and manifested behind Abelia and snapped her neck. Everything for me had stopped, all I could hear was the blood in my veins. I didn't breath, I could still remember the deafining roar I had unleashed as my monster had gripped me, took the reins and killed all of the mans servants.
Blood had bathed the walls that night, not even the crickets dared to sing. The sun rose late that morning, and I sat inside this very apartment, on that very couch, and cried. For the very first time, I had cried until my eye's swelled shut, until my throat could bare no more. Until I passed out.
    "We'll get them back Cameron, don't worry. For now get some rest, we'll start investigating later tonight, I have meeting to attend," I was going to **** that ******* when I found him. He had taken my only love from me, and he would pay this time, I would make that absoultely certain. Cameron nodded and headed for the door. It was a long way back to his house, and he crossed quite a few bridges. I didn't want him making any bad decisions, " Cameron you can crash here, I have a guest room your welcome here man," I say casually so he doesn't get all prideful. He stops and looks at me for a moment then nods " Yeah, thanks man, and also thank you for agreeing to help me on this I know it's a bit of a touchy subject for you, just know i appreciate it." He made his way down the hall, I listened for the soft click of the door shuting before i went to leave.
    I grabbed my coat, and the keys to my Ducatti and ducked out the door. The hallway was long and at the end of it was two flights of srairs, I lived on the third floor. My motorcycle was parked right were I left it, it was a beauty. Black and red sleek metal and nice leather seats. I loved the bike so much I had named her Racer. I loved to drive fast, and so did she. I tore off out of the parking lot and listened to the purr of her engine on the way to Rowan's , my boss, office. It wasnt to far, but I wasn't in a rush either so i took the long road just to stall. I knew Rowan planned on giving me a partner. Probably some ****** that didnt know his way around a swiss army blade, let alone a sword. Warriors didnt use guns unless absoultely necessary. I loved the feel of my sword slicing through the air. I didn't, however, enjoy the noisy bang of a gun. A sword was like another limb, you have to trust it to take you were you need to go.
    Rowan's office light was on, and I could make out the form of three bodies. Great, I knew it, Rowan was going to assign me a partner.
I hated partners, the only one I'd ever slightly enjoyed had been Cameron. I got off my bike, patted the seat for good luck, and made my way into Rowans office. When I pulled open the door I was ready to yell at Rowan for even thinking of giving me a partner, instead i dropped my hand off the doorknob. " *******," was all I coluld say. I was stunned to silence.

Thirty is too young to know you’re nothing,
so get your head out of the gas.
Thirty is old enough to know you’re something,
Sylvia, Sylvia, Sylvia Plath.

Pressure expands more than your skull.
Mason jars in the cupboard clink
all the reasons you should be annulled,
Sylvia, Sylvia, Sylvia Plath.

Here’s what you missed in the other room:
no mother, no father, wooden food,
children play mommy better than you.
Sylvia, Sylvia, Sylvia Plath.

I cannot breathe, I cannot breathe
any more, blue mind
in which I have lived like a prisoner
for thirty years, manic and lonely,
barely daring to fill my lungs.

Sylvia dear, it’s time to say goodbye.
You’ve lived much too long——
marble-heavy, a bag full of God,
frightening effigy with cracked lips
silently holding your breath

and a head in the feverish oven
where it pours red over snow white
with the children asleep in the next room
I used to pray to recover you
oh, you.

In the American tongue, in the British town
blinded white by the tongue
of winter, winter, winter,
but the sadness within is old.
My British friend

says there have been a dozen or two
so I never could tell where you
put your mouth, your pen and ink,
I never could talk to you.
The words trapped in my throat.

Swallowed in a sea of tears
I, I, I, I,
I could hardly speak
I thought every woman was she.
and the looks pitiful

the madness, the madness
leaving me to be a lunatic.
A lunatic to Daddy, Teddy, Mother.
I began to write like a lunatic.
I think I may well be a lunatic.

The whites of my eyes, the memories of Boston
are no longer full of light and truth
with my average looks and mediocre mind
and my Bible and my Bible
I may be a bit of a lunatic.

I have always been scared of you,
with your books, your gobbledygoo.
And your coifed curls
and your German eye, mousy brown.
Crazy girl, crazy girl, O You——

not sane but locked up
so tight no eye could peep through.
Every man enjoys a Mother,
child suckling the breast, the mad
mad mind of a madness like you.

You stand tall and proud, Sylvia,
in the pictures I have of you,
a twitch in your hands instead of your eye
but no less a devil for that, no not
any less the deranged woman who

shattered my fragile mind in a million pieces.
I was scarcely a girl when I met you.
At twenty I tried to die
and get back, back, back to you.
I thought even the bones would do

but they pulled me into the spotlight,
and painted a shiny new coat on me.
And then I knew what to do.
I made a model of you,
a girl in blue with a look of despair.

And a love of the noose and pills
and I said I do, I do.
So Sylvia, dear, I’m finally through.
The telephone line is dead on this end,
the voices just can’t hear through this madness.

If they’ve killed the spirit, I’ve killed the body——
the ghost who said she was you
and drank my blood for a year,
ten years, if you must know.
Sylvia, you can close your eyes now.

There’s a gas in your brilliant, blue mind
and the other women never liked you.
They are praising your dead body.
They always knew it was you.
Sylvia, Sylvia, you witch, I’m through.

There's a passage in a story by John Buchan where a minor character explains how a good mystery story is created: take at least three random subjects or events and connect them together. Here goes.
 
A toothbrush
Covent Garden
Wildflowers*
 
Interesting to let the mind float free and subjects appear unbidden, thought Marcus. The moon had risen and out at sea its reflections caressed the swelling waves. Calm the night after such a day of being about.
 
Gregory had phoned him, early. Marcus had been lying in bed. Sylvia had just returned from the bathroom and had folded herself into his arms. Their collective feet had conversed amicably as early morning feet do. She was still tingling a little from the passion they had shared, stretching herself languorously like a cat coming into the warm after a cold night out.
 
'Marcus,' said Gregory, 'it's today.' And that was all. The line went dead, but that was all he needed to know.
 
He extricated himself from Sylvia who was intent either on sleep or further love-making. She was incorrigible, but so so desirable.
 
I'll just take a toothbrush he thought as he swiftly shaved. He picked a new pink one still in its packet and put it in his bag with the papers, a map, his camera . . .
 
He thought about Ripley as he steered the car onto the motorway. That character fascinated him and he wondered if its inventor Patricia Highsmith had ever known such a man; a nice good-looking man, but selfish and nasty. Marcus wondered if he was selfish and nasty. He reckoned he was.
 
When he reached Covent Garden, parking illegally in Jermine street, he wasted no time in walking directly to Turino's. There, amongst the tourists and the out of town shoppers was Greg.
 
'I have this little package for you. Don't open it until you reach Southwold. Park in front of the Lion Hotel. Do nothing until she appears, which she will do after her lunch with the doctor. Then follow her. We think she'll go to Ben's. If she does we want the pictures . . . and as explicit as possible. Leave the package.'
 
It's at least two and a half hours to this village on the Suffolk coast. Until Ipswich he scarcely regarded the early summer colours, the plaintive skies, fields stretching to woods, the occasional grandeur of parkland.
 
He stopped for coffee at a services and called Sylvia.
 
'Hi Sylvia it's me.'
'Where are you? I was hoping we'd spend the morning together.'
'Well Greg called . . . I'm on my way to the seaside.'
'Oh . . . no time for Sylvia today?'
'Not today'
'Tonight?'
'if all goes to plan'
' You journalists, you're all the same . .'
 
But he wasn't. He was different. He didn't just write, he could investigate, uncover things, hack into mobile phones, get the compromising images.
 
Yes, she was going to Ben's . North, on the Norwich road. No hesitation. She drove fast. He had to have his wits about him. When she turned off the main road to the mill he carried on, then doubled back and two miles further on parked within sight of the building.
 
Her red car was there the courtyard. He decided on getting in from the garden so left the road for an adjoining field. Waist high in a profusion of grasses and wildflowers Marcus made his way painstakingly towards a collection of outbuildings, the indoor swimming pool, garages, an office.
 
The pictures were good. Both of them, together. The architect and the broker. Lovers, conspirators, thieves. They deserved everything coming to them.
 
He had entered the mill briefly. There were voices upstairs, a little laughter and then silence. He left the package on the kitchen table propped up against a vase.
 
They'd been following her movements for months after he'd taken his suspicions to Fred. Yes, he'd been so lucky. A wine bar conversation, an aggrieved employee, a few leaked documents and it all came together. And now this . . . the ****** stuff the paper loved.
 
He decided not to go back to Sylvia tonight but walk by the sea, let the gentle whoosh of water on the pebbled strand sooth his ruffled conscience. He had done his job. There would be other intrusions. Investigations, revelations. Mr Nice but nasty like The Talented Mr Ripley, he thought.

Sometimes it is, poor Sylvia,
that we cannot find the answers. They're
not to be found clinking about in the stars,
blowing about in the August wind,
or blooming among the tea flowers, no matter
how scented. No charlatan soothsayer discerns.
No pull of the cards deciphers. If answers come
at all they'll be found deep within yourself, only.
Don't we all prove that countless, wretched
times? But know this, dear Sylvia, even though it's too
late for your sanity and your life, your daddy didn't
die because of you, for you, by you. Death simply
drew the line and pulled him across.

What were you to do when life puzzled you
to the limit, when all poems disappointed,
when the ink failed to flow smoothly,
the pen tore at the paper and the paper
turned to ash before a line could be written down?
What to do when your child's smile failed to ignite
motherhood, when Daddy's image floated in and out, when
emotional pain dragged you terrified under its
black cerement, that cold, wet, smothering grave cloth?

Fear, oh my God, fear, and the doubt that you had,
the whirling about of a shattered mind, bouncing
from this trap to the other - your muted, stifled inner
screams unheard, or worse, unexpressed. Yes,
you found a solution, poor Sylvia, but suicide
doesn't always equate with an answer. You found a
sad poem, a dirge to be exact, something that moves
us, but there is no rhyme to it and the ending is an
enigma, a great puzzle yet to be invoked, understood.

----

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Infinity's Mirror by Nat Lipstadt

Two mirrors, set in opposition observe created notional blending,
a reflecting pool of bonding's of unglued, contrary compositions.
Mirror to mirror, his imagery, fuses to Sylvia's images, hers,
faintly recollected, now living face, face to face, with his past insurrections, alters his future visions.

From cold water lake she's drawn, impaled by refracting regrets,
retrieved, drawing her words upon him, an awakening slap to drink,
beloved, tragic magic, infinitely captive.  But this old man's tiddlywinks, land-locked words, blunted instruments, needy for release & salvation, are neither silvered or exacting, just stains on a dulled, tarnished brass spittoon, except for the brunt'd bunting of lines across his roughened terrain'd face, black and white, pen and ink etched illustration of howling agitation.

His words worn down, hardened, red faced, purloined speckled pellets, damp to roll on down her rutted, almost ancient, tear streak paths, disbelieved superstitions, sacrificed for one of her living morsels of words.

Man, here to her, pledges allegiance, audaciously defiling her poetic sanctity, a visage endless repeated, delivers her shiny poem-poised countenance, even though no forgiveness from time can a mirror afford for either, from her words,  confession born, terrible truths beyond, beyond the finite.

                                                
~~~~~~~­~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Mirror by Sylvia Plath

I am silver and exact. I have no preconceptions.
What ever you see I swallow immediately
Just as it is, unmisted by love or dislike.
I am not cruel, only truthful---
The eye of a little god, four-cornered.
Most of the time I meditate on the opposite wall.
It is pink, with speckles. I have looked at it so long
I think it is a part of my heart. But it flickers.
Faces and darkness separate us over and over.
Now I am a lake. A woman bends over me,
Searching my reaches for what she really is.
Then she turns to those liars, the candles or the moon.
I see her back, and reflect it faithfully.
She rewards me with tears and an agitation of hands.
I am important to her. She comes and goes.
Each morning it is her face that replaces the darkness.
In me she has drowned a young girl, and in me an old woman
Rises toward her day after day, like a terrible fish.

even amidst fierce flames the golden lotus can be planted*

to sylvia plath

dear sylvia softness i feel, firm in my bones
i stand like crooked smile my lips wear everyday
everyday, every day is madness to death, to resurrection and back to the start until you find something new
tender and kind i cannot talk, lump in my chest and head
fingernails are just as boring as eyelashes, they cannot be ugly
unless you are more than 'just sad'
i dream of a place full of rainbows and plants
dear sylvia
the smell of grass that casts darkness away
but actually it's ocean that makes the nights bearable
dear sylvia
dear sylvia saltiness made of quiet tearless cries
let's just let go
dear sylvia drown in the blue of the soul
accept the universe seeps to your flesh and drown
drown until there's nothing left to remember
dear sylvia
where the home is
that's where the home is

1969 Hartford art school is magnet for exceedingly intelligent over-sensitive under-achievers alluring freaks congenital creeps and anyone who cannot cut it in straight world it is about loners dreamers stoners clowns cliques of posers competing to dress draw act most outrageous weird wonderful classrooms clash in diversity of needs some students get it right off while others require so much individual attention one girl constantly raises her hand calls for everything to be repeated explained creativity is treated as trouble and compliance to instruction rewarded most of faculty are of opinion kids are not capable of making original artwork teachers discourage students from dream of becoming well-known until they are older more experienced only practiced skilled artists are competent to create ‘real art’ defined by how much struggle or multiple meanings weave through the work Odysseus wants to make magic boxes without knowing or being informed of Joseph Cornell one teacher tells him you think you’re going to invent some new color the world has never seen? you’re just some rowdy brat from the midwest with a lot of crazy ideas and no evidence of authenticity another teacher warns you’re nothing more than a bricoleur! Odysseus questions what’s a bricoleur teacher informs a rogue handyman who haphazardly constructs from whatever is immediately available Odysseus questions what’s wrong with that? teacher answers it’s low-class folk junk  possessing no real intellectual value independently he reads Marshall McLuhan’s “The Medium Is The Message” and “The Notebooks of Leonardo da Vinci” he memorizes introductory remark of Leonardo’s “i must do like one who comes last to the fair and can find no other way of providing for himself than by taking all the things already seen by others and not taken by reason of their lesser value” Odysseus dreams of becoming accomplished important artist like Robert Rauschenberg Jasper Johns Andy Warhol he dreams of being in eye of hurricane New York art scene he works for university newspaper and is nicknamed crashkiss the newspaper editor is leader in student movement and folk singer who croons “45 caliber man, you’re so much more than our 22, but there’s so many more of us than you” Odysseus grows mustache wears flower printed pants vintage 1940’s leather jacket g.i. surplus clothes he makes many friends his gift for hooking up with girls is uncanny he is long haired drug-crazed hippie enjoying popularity previously unknown to him rock bands play at art openings everyone flirts dances gets ****** lots of activism on campus New York Times dubs university of Hartford “Berkeley of the east coast” holding up ******* in peace sign is subversive in 1969 symbol of rebellion youth solidarity gesture against war hawks rednecks corporate America acknowledgment of potential beyond materialistic self-righteous values of status quo sign of what could be in universe filled with incredible possibilities he moves in with  painting student one year advanced named Todd Whitman Todd has curly blond hair sturdy build wire rimmed glasses impish smile gemini superb draftsman amazing artist Todd emulates Francisco de Goya and Albrecht Durer Todd’s talent overshadows Odysseus’s Todd’s dad is accomplished professor at distinguished college in Massachusetts to celebrate Odysseus’s arrival Todd cooks all day preparing spaghetti dinner when Odysseus arrives home tripping on acid without appetite Todd is disappointed Odysseus runs down to corner store buys large bottle of wine returns to house Todd is eating spaghetti alone they get drunk together then pierce each other’s ears with needles ice wine cork pierced ears are outlaw style of bad *** bikers like Hell’s Angels Todd says you are a real original Odys and funny too Odysseus asks funny, how? Todd answers you are one crazy ******* drop acid whenever you want smoke **** then go to class this is fun tonight Odys getting drunk and piercing our ears Odysseus says yup i’m having a good time too Todd and Odysseus become best friends Odysseus turns Todd on to Sylvia Plath’s “The Bell Jar” and “Ariel” then they both read Ted Hughes “Crow” illustrated with Leonard Baskin prints Todd turns Odysseus on to German Expressionist painting art movement of garish colors emotionally violent imagery from 1905-1925 later infuriating Third ***** who deemed the work “degenerate” Odysseus dives into works of Max Beckmann Otto Dix Conrad Felixmulller Barthel Gilles George Grosz Erich Heckel Ernst Ludwig Kirchner Felix Nussbaum Karl *******Rottluff Carl Hofer August Macke Max Peckstein Elfriede Lohse-Wachtler Egon Shiele list goes on in 1969 most parents don’t have money to buy their children cars most kids living off campus either ride bikes or hitchhike to school then back home on weekends often without a penny in their pockets Odysseus and Todd randomly select a highway and hitch rides to Putney Vermont Brattleboro Boston Cape Cod New York City or D.C. in search of adventure there is always trouble to be found curious girls to assist in Georgetown Odysseus sleeps with skinny girl with webbed toes who believes he is Jesus he tries to dissuade her but she is convinced

Toby Mantis is visiting New York City artist at Hartford art school he looks like huskier handsomer version of Ringo Starr and women dig him he builds stretchers and stretches canvases for Warhol lives in huge loft in Soho on Broadway and Bleeker invites Odysseus to come down on weekends hang out Toby takes him to Max’s Kansas City Warhol’s Electric Circus they wander all night into morning there are printing companies longshoremen gays in Chelsea Italians in West Village hippies playing guitars protesting the war in Washington Square all kinds of hollering crazies passing out fliers pins in Union Square Toby is hard drinker Odysseus has trouble keeping up  he pukes his guts out number of times Odysseus is *** head not drinker he explores 42nd Street stumbles across strange exotic place named Peep Show World upstairs is large with many **** cubicles creepy dudes hanging around downstairs is astonishing there are many clusters of booths with live **** girls inside girls shout out hey boys come on now pick me come on boys there are hundreds of girls from all over the world in every conceivable size shape race he enters dark stall  puts fifty cents in coin box window screen lifts inside each cluster are 6 to 10 girls either parading or glued to a window for $1 he is allowed to caress kiss their ******* for $2 he is permitted to probe their ****** or *** for $10 girl reaches hand into darkened stall jerks him off tall slender British girl thrills him the most she says let me have another go at your dickey Odysseus spends all his money ******* 5 times departing he notices men from every walk of life passing through wall street stockbrokers executives rednecks mobsters frat boys tourists fat old bald guys smoking thick smelly cigars Toby Mantis has good-looking girlfriend named Lorraine with long brown hair Toby Lorraine and Odysseus sit around kitchen table Odysseus doodles with pencil on paper Toby spreads open Lorraine’s thighs exposing her ****** to Odysseus Lorraine blushes yet permits Toby to finger her Odysseus thinks she has the most beautiful ****** he has ever seen bulging pelvic bone brown distinctive bush symmetric lips Toby and Lorraine watch in amusement as Odysseus gazes intently Tony mischievously remarks you like looking at that ***** don’t you? Odysseus stares silently begins pencil drawing Lorraine’s ****** his eyes darting back and forth following day Lorraine seduces Odysseus while Toby is away walks out **** from shower she is few years older her body lean with high ******* she directs his hands mouth while she talks with someone on telephone it is strange yet quite exciting Odysseus is in awe of New York City every culture in the world intermingling democracy functioning in an uncontrollable managed breath millions of people in motion stories unraveling on every street 24 hour spectacle with no limits every conceivable variety of humanity ******* in same air Odysseus is bedazzled yet intimidated

Odysseus spends summer of 1970 at art colony in Cummington Massachusetts it is magical time extraordinary place many talented eccentric characters all kinds of happenings stage plays poetry readings community meals volleyball after dinner volleyball games are hilarious fun he lives alone in isolated studio amidst wild raspberries in woods shares toilet with field mouse no shower he reads Jerzy Kosinski’s “Painted Bird” then “Being There” then “Steps” attractive long haired girl named Pam visits community for weekend meets Odysseus they talk realize they were in first grade together at Harper amazing coincidence automatic ground for “we need to have *** because neither of us has seen each other since first grade” she inquires where do you sleep? Todd hitches up from Hartford to satisfy curiosity everyone sleeps around good-looking blue-eyed poet named Shannon Banks from South Boston tells Odysseus his ******* is not big enough for kind of ******* she wants but she will **** him off that’s fine with him 32 year old poet named Ellen Morrissey from Massachusetts reassures him ******* is fine Ellen is beginning to find her way out from suffocating marriage she has little daughter named Nina Ellen admires Odysseus’s free spirit sees both his possibilities and naïveté she realizes he has crippling family baggage he has no idea he is carrying thing about trauma is as it is occurring victim shrugs laughs to repel shock yet years later pain horror sink in turned-on with new ideas he returns to Hartford art school classes are fun yet confusing he strives to be best drawer most innovative competition sidetracks him Odysseus uses power drill to carve pumpkin on Halloween teachers warn him to stick to fundamentals too much creativity is suspect Todd and he are invited to holiday party Odysseus shows up with Ellen Morrissey driving in her father’s station wagon 2 exceptionally pretty girls flirt with him he is live wire they sneak upstairs he fingers both at same time while they laugh to each other one of the girls Laura invites him outside to do more he follows they walk through falling snow until they find hidden area near some trees Laura lies down lifts her skirt she spreads her legs dense ***** mound he is about to explore her there when Laura looks up sees figure with flashlight following their tracks in snow she warns it’s Bill my husband run for your life! Odysseus runs around long way back inside party grabs a beer pretending he has been there next to Ellen all night few minutes later he sees Laura and Bill return through front door Bill has dark mustache angry eyes Odysseus tells Ellen it is late maybe they should leave soon suddenly Bill walks up to him with beer in hand cracks bottle over his head glass and beer splatter Odysseus jumps up runs out to station wagon Ellen hurriedly follows snow coming down hard car is wedged among many guest vehicles he starts engine locks doors maneuvers vehicle back and forth trying to inch way out of spot Bill appears from party walks to his van disappears from out of darkness swirling snow Bill comes at them wielding large crowbar smashes car’s headlights taillights side mirrors windshield covered in broken glass Ellen ducks on floor beneath glove compartment sobs cries he’s going to **** us! we’re going to die! Odysseus steers station wagon free floors gas pedal drives on back country roads through furious snowstorm in dark of night no lights Odysseus contorts crouches forward in order to see through hole in shattered windshield Ellen sees headlights behind them coming up fast it is Bill in van Bill banging their bumper follows them all the way back to Hartford to Odysseus’s place they run inside call police Bill sits parked van outside across street as police arrive half hour later Bill pulls away next day Odysseus and Ellen drive to Boston to explain to Ellen’s dad what has happened to his station wagon Odysseus stays with Ellen in Brookline for several nights another holiday party she wants to take him along to meet her friends her social circles are older he thinks to challenge their values be outrageous paints face Ellen is horrified cries you can’t possibly do this to me these are my close friends what will they think? he defiantly answers my face is a mask who cares what i look like? man woman creature what does it matter? if your friends really want to know me they’ll need to look beyond the make-up tonight i am your sluttish girlfriend! sometimes Odysseus can be a thoughtless fool

Laura Rousseau Shane files for divorce from Bill she is exceptionally lovely models at art school she is of French descent her figure possessing exotic traits she stands like ballerina with thick pointed ******* copious ***** hair Odysseus is infatuated she frequently dances pursues him Laura says i had the opportunity to meet Bob Dylan once amazed Odysseus questions what did you do? she replies what could i possibly have in common with Bob Dylan? Laura teases Odysseus about being a preppy then lustfully gropes him grabs holds his ***** they devote many hours to ****** intimacy during ******* she routinely reaches her hand from under her buns grasps his testicles squeezing as he pumps he likes that Laura is quite eccentric fetishes over Odysseus she even thrills to pick zits on his back he is not sure if it is truly a desire of hers proof of earthiness or simply expression of mothering Laura has two daughters by Bill Odysseus is in over his head Laura tells Odysseus myth of Medea smitten with love for Jason Jason needs Medea’s help to find Golden Fleece Medea agrees with promise of marriage murders her brother arranges ****** of king who has deprived Jason his inheritance couple is forced into exile Medea bears Jason 2 sons then Jason falls in love with King Creon’s daughter deserts Medea is furious she makes shawl for King Creon’s daughter to wear at her wedding to Jason  shawl turns to flames killing bride Medea murders her own sons by Jason Odysseus goes along with story for a while but Laura wants husband Odysseus is merely scruffy boy with roving eyes Laura becomes galled by Odysseus leaves him for one of his roommates whom she marries then several years later divorces there is scene when Laura tells Odysseus she is dropping him for his roommate he is standing in living room of her house space is painted deep renaissance burgundy there are framed photographs on walls in one photo he is hugging Laura and her daughters under big oak tree in room Laura’s friend Bettina other girl he fingered first night he met Laura at party is watching with arms crossed he drops to floor curls body sobs i miss you so much Laura turns to Bettina remarks look at him men are such big babies he’s pitiful Bettina nods

following summer he works installing displays at G. Fox Department Store besides one woman gay men staff display department for as long as he can remember homosexuals have always been attracted to him this misconception is probably how he got job his tenor voice suggesting not entirely mature man instead more like tentative young boy this ambiguous manifestation sometimes also evidences gestures thoroughly misleading after sidestepping several ****** advances one of his co-workers bewilderingly remarks you really are straight manager staff are fussy chirpy catty group consequently certain he is not gay they discriminate against him stick him with break down clean up slop jobs at outdoor weekend rock concert in Constitution Plaza he meets 2 younger blond girls who consent to go back to his place mess around both girls are quite dazzling yet one is somewhat physically undeveloped they undress and model for Odysseus radio plays Roberta Flack’s “Killing Me Softly With His Song” both girls move to rhythm sing along he thinks to orchestrate direct decides instead to let them lead lies on bed while curvaceous girl rides his ******* slender girl sits on his face they switch all 3 alternate giggle laughter each girl reaches ****** on his stiffness later both assist with hands mouths his ****** is so intense it leaves him paralyzed for a moment

in fall he is cast as Claudius in production of Hamlet Odysseus rehearses diligently on nights o

i can't help what i am...
but what i am not is a spoken word
poet: with that generic exasperation
technique of speaking -
as if, on the verge of crying...

but what i can tell you...
i am a rigid person,
there are 3/4 of me that should
have enlisted in the army,
and only a 1/4 that went to
university...

so... given that i'm such a rigid ******...
i thought i'd tell you about
linear and vertical rhyming...
linear?
oh, that's neat & easy:

.................................... end
.................................... bend
..................................... send
..................................... wend....

basically suffix rhyming...
but! but... what Sylvia Plath
introduced?
   oh, my, god...
      transcendent of
the conceptualization of
"the" box...

her rhyme? alphabetical...
sort of...

        it's more than that...
she didn't pay due diligence on
suffix rhyming -end,
   -ing
    you name it...

you want to know what her rhyme
concept implies?

   **** me, it's sassy...

she was a rhyming weaver...
an interloper...
    words didn't have to necessarily
end in the same boundary
of an echo... echo rhyming
by the standard bearers is one thing...
she made tartan rhymes...

tartan rhyming...
kilt rhyming...

                  and it looked something
equivalent to, this:

  ceremony or Potent -
Still sky, obtuSe -
   one might Say love -
  Suddenly,
        black featherS,
black reSpit -
Season of fatigue,
SpaSmodic,
  deScend...
   Stolidly...
       no effigy... Seem...
pompouS...
                         coarSe copy...
      Bell tongue BirdS...
    Shrined on her SHelf...
too Tough to Finish...
  Seize my Senses...
ToTal neuTrality...
   deScent...
                Sanguine...
  bRick dusk...
Prose...
              plaCe...
            pompouS...
Ne­at kNits...
    weedS obScured...
SHe blenched,
miMic...
   deSpite...
baniSH...
    ******...
too tough for knife to finiSH...

      Head...
so profoundly muCH...
       piN legs...
               thoughtS...
So departS...
       S(h)eets...
Sanity...
      Tongue...
Printed Page...
  Twelve...
Sick man's Eye...
nEVER nEVER found
anyWHERE...

goodbye goodbye...
      eXclamation...
the First point...
            GHost...
   Signify...
cuckoo-land of color fields,
CRisp CUsp...
    
        the girl's dancing!
she's dancing barefoot...
no, i can't fall in love with her...
she's, dead!

    but can you see
rhyming vertically?
   all the lettering,
in capital letters?
  deviancy...
   it doesn't agree to your
box standard form of
rhyme, linearly...
  it's vertical rhyming,
it's juxtapositions on a scale
that might elongate
the winding tongue of a snake
in, anything but maracas
rattling...
sssssssssssssssssssssss.....
a wet snare...
   she's teasing...
she has escaped
the tradition of
the traditional guise of rhyme...
she has invoked
rhyme, but as an intermediating
attachment...
          forget the rigid
end-
                   -ing
with a "worthy"
   sympathiz-
                                        -ing...

what a gall...
she makes the housewives of America's
1950s twice as vampire-like,
and thrice as Stepford material...
   lucky blond to leave so much
"crap" behind...
   i could pick the maggots
from her head and make it
a day's worth of fishing
on the banks of Vistula...

she's dancing in the rain,
and all i have is my Cameo cinema
moment
with my cousin, Justine,
running barefoot where
i grew up on the cement...
and then cuddling together,
getting warmer
over one worth of an afternoon...

last time i heard...
her son Leo was born on
the 15th of May,
my birthday...
  but we've fallen out...
when her husband
put a **** under my father's
self-employment
enterprise...
   and undertook
a practice of stealing workers
from him...
great move... when you join
a family...

        nice memory though...
wish my cousin Justin all the luck
she can muster...
but when it comes to family
friendliness?
none....
                 went to her brother's
wedding... was interrogated by
her brother's best man...

   Polish drunk talk...
let's just say...
his date?
   was flashing her underwear
at me from under her magic carpet
ride of a skirt while we
smoke cigarettes and finished
off drinks, being accused of...
trying... to seriously...
hide her... exhibitionism...

   so i started punching myself
in the face to find target practice
should i ever come across
any more Polacks, drunk,
at a family wedding...
   you never know...

           hell... if ******* wanna tango...
we'll... ******* tango! ha ha.
now all i need is the raw
material... my knuckles
are either furry...
or they're itchy...
  can't exactly knock-out
my neighbors dog...
   i need a ******* mug of
a mouthwash advert...
with a grin that's, seriously
asking for a few missing teeth
to rekindle a smile!

why does it touch you deeper
when i say what i write
is based on a true story?

here and now i use no capitalized word
here and now it's him i remember
for it's him who said:
"small letters are more humble"
you know, this is based on a true story;
i met him but not really
my longhands reached him
far, far away from here
surpassed lands and seas
o, how large is my country --
his equals plus one to my gmt
here foods are sweet and there are spicy
he hated and still hates the food here;
it reminds him of the tyrant
who'd only cared about
the west but not that west
and made the east poor and slaved --
he was one of those who
yelled reformation when i was
only nearly two

i am seventeen and so was he --
when i was born.
i love how thirteen connects
our birthdates;
mine is twelve and his fourteen
and i said to him thirteen was my
favorite number
and purple was my favorite color
for his was blue but
i thought of him as red --
red not of the lust but
red of the color of tomatoes --
his mother was a tomato seller
and since i had known that,
tomatoes began to taste sweeter
sweeter than ever

when i said i liked purple
i didn't know it was the color of
the rain,
his first love ever --
when he was just a kid
he wanted to marry her
but then he learnt at school
the rain is not a girl at all
not even alive
he couldn't marry her but
he still loves the rain
so i do too

you know,
i once was an anti-coffee
i used to drink only and only tea but
he loves coffee
so i do too
i once sent him
my favorite coffee along with
a ta-ta-for-now letter
and he replied to me electronically
with a stabbing sad emoticon
:(
it still stabs
but then he said
the coffee was good
and i smiled
but he didn't know it

do you know
what's better
than a cup of coffee in the morning?
"it's two cups of coffee"
he'd say something like that
so this morning i decided to
have a super sweet tea,
sugar so much it
almost tasted like soda --
every gulp was
painful
to my soul.
i almost found the
god in me if i had drank the second cup but
i made coffee instead
no sugar like i always had
not because i like bitterness
it's because every drop of coffee is him
and he is sweet enough already --
but i broke the rule of two
this morning i had
three cups of coffee
three cups of him
and it wrenched me --
la douleur exquise
-- the heart wrenching pain
of wanting someone you can't have

i don't even have a single autograph
of him
i hoped that he would write me letters
with that pretty handwriting of his
but at the same time
i was afraid that he wouldn't
so i sent him bunch
without an address to reply to --
you know, this is based on a true story;
he is a writer
but he doesn't really like
to be called a writer
because a writer will be jealous
of another great writer so
he calls himself a reader instead
and he embraces his thirst of great books
he is a librarian
he lives around the books
he lives for and from the books
he has three cats
and seems like he will
have more cats and more
like his mother,
his mother loves cats too
it's prophet muhammad's favorite pet
or so he said
on the radio

he is a poet
a broadcaster on a local radio
every friday and saturday
and at the end of the broadcast
he will read poems
sent by emails
even you can send your poem
but not all poems can be read
there are so many, you know
here we really love writing poetry
but few like reading it
like me
i read his poems
not because i loved reading poetry
it was because
it's his, it's him

but now
he has done what he should do
he has completed his role
he has made me believe in poetry
he saved me from the disbelief of poetry
he taught me that poetry
could heal
he said that writing poetry
is hugging
and reading it
is returning the
hug
he would read a lot of poems
when he is sick
and now
that's what i do too

he was the one who kept
my feet on the ground
every time i felt down
i sang silently a7x's m.i.a.
lend me your courage to stand up and fight
so he lent me his courage
so i could stand up and fight
and every time this life
felt so wrong, lacked meaning
i remembered his name
and a promise i promised
to him
on my own mind
"don't die before we meet"
yeah, i wouldn't die
i would never die

there was no other way for us
than being yinyang
and that's why i decided to
hate what he loves
he loves coffee
but i couldn't hate it
he loves poetry
but i couldn't hate it
he loves rain
but i couldn't hate it
he loves sylvia plath
but i couldn't hate sylvia
i can't ever hate sylvia
i can't stay away from his sylvia
i love her
and she loves me back
sylvia is my earth
and that's how i realize
he and i can't ever be --

you know, this is based on a true story;
because i say so.

In beautiful sunlight with clear azure sky
not a cloud in sight,
just your beauty
falling from your pen like a clear crisp rain.
Reading again and again your emotions
melting my heart
bringing me so close to you.
Though I knew then we would never meet.
I should have known,
drinking my cloudy coffee,
reading your poetry
knowing how  it came from a dark place.
Too dark to let in the light
even in its shining abundance of summer.

If only I could have reached you
looked into your beautiful face.
Told you how much the world needed you
and your words, that would outlast your time.

To have touched your cheek
and wiped away your invisible tears.
The ones trapped inside
that could not flow.

Instead this world
was too much for you to bear.
Breathing the dank fumes
of coal gas in a London flat
You took your gifts with you
leaving only memories in your poems.

You were born in the heavens
and fell from a star.
Yet when you landed here Sylvia
you shattered
Into a thousand pieces
like a beautiful Crystal Vase.
And even with the passing
of the creeping years.
I still miss you

My mother, Sylvia Plath,
These days, I might laugh,
Electric oven, you know,
I was too young to know,
One way to go--
It was an electric stove!
I was too young to know,
I used to live in dread,
I learnt what blackmail meant,
She got cremated, you know,
I was too young to know,
These days, I might laugh,
My mother, Sylvia Plath.

When i wake up i will die
I will die sitting as you are sleeping on my lap
And you will not wake up and cry for my warmth is infinite
You think i am not dead
You think i am not dead

When i was a kid i thought i wouldn't want to marry
Though marrying doesn't mean having children
Maybe i thought i wouldn't want to have ***
It's just terrifying to think that i could just accidentaly have a kid
Children are scary
How they scream and laugh and cry and run
How those eyes stare, so brave, mysteriously intimidating
I am afraid
I won't ever have a child, i thought

But then i found that
it is so calming
To think of Assia and Shura
Together
Following Sylvia
Following Sylvia
I would like to have a child too
A daughter would be perfect
Or a son or an intersex, it doesn't matter
I just need her
I need my Sylvia
I need to follow Sylvia
I will follow her and will not leave her
She is not Jesus and i don't need to leave her and she will not ever leave me
We, Sylvia and i, will be one
This one infinite warmth
This one infinite warmth

In the aftermath
Of a very hot bath
Sylvia Plath
Used to re-read
Katherine Mansfield stories
Until she felt
A little bit snory.

Whilst Ted Hughes -
After he'd imbued
The cool waters of
A shower for an hour -
Would watch Jackanory
Till he felt Hunky Dory
Then listen to Aladdin Sane
To bring him back to
The real world again.

Watch That Man!

Black Rook In Rainy Weather

On the stiff twig up there
Hunches a wet black rook
Arranging and rearranging its feathers in the rain.
I do not expect a miracle
Or an accident

To set the sight on fire
In my eye, nor seek
Any more in the desultory weather some design,
But let spotted leaves fall as they fall,
Without ceremony, or portent.

Although, I admit, I desire,
Occasionally, some backtalk
From the mute sky, I can't honestly complain:
A certain minor light may still
Lean incandescent

Out of kitchen table or chair
As if a celestial burning took
Possession of the most obtuse objects now and then --
Thus hallowing an interval
Otherwise inconsequent

By bestowing largesse, honor,
One might say love. At any rate, I now walk
Wary (for it could happen
Even in this dull, ruinous landscape); skeptical,
Yet politic; ignorant

Of whatever angel may choose to flare
Suddenly at my elbow. I only know that a rook
Ordering its black feathers can so shine
As to seize my senses, haul
My eyelids up, and grant

A brief respite from fear
Of total neutrality. With luck,
Trekking stubborn through this season
Of fatigue, I shall
Patch together a content

Of sorts. Miracles occur,
If you care to call those spasmodic
Tricks of radiance miracles. The wait's begun again,
The long wait for the angel,
For that rare, random descent.

The Response*

Even while flashbulbs go out, every now and then, we all must gather our arms and legs in a heap of human kindling, to rap tap tap on the downstairs neighbors door- for a set of candles, perhaps a chance to go completely insane for one terse moment when the hyperbole of vowels *just don't matter anymore.

And speaking of the sordid state of griseous gull-like creatures. Ravenous ravens gnawing outside the window of the kitchen table. How boring life can become, for at the moment, when we are not biting our nails, playing dress up, or playing doctor- all *******. Or maybe even burying our heads in the looks of rooks or with our noses brimming over with the tops of books.

The tea we have set in the study awaits us, as we all have to drink our tea some time.

Just don't leave the lights on baby. Who needs lamps at full lux at high noon any who? You, Mrs. Sylvia Plath Hughes? Maybe you ought to buy a book of stamps- at the nearest Hobby Lobby, pack a paper bag with an apple and a 'sammich', and list formally your complaints.

We can't all waste our time narrating other people's lives in the third person.

Houston stood up from his stooped position on the sunken mattress edge. Shuffling over to his one lone window he grabbed a paint stained old t-shirt and used it to gingerly wipe the filth off of the closest pane. The light he allowed entrance made the sorry state of his quarters look all the more uninviting. Piles of soiled clothing, dozens of glass bottles, torn canvas shreds(he could never hold his temper long enough to sleep on it) and empty paint pots from one unkempt corner to the other.   No wonder he had not worked in months. How could an artist create in such a state? He sighed heavily to himself and pulled on faded blue jeans with a plaid button up. Clothed and comfortable he surveyed his "work" room, which consisted of his five foot wide, two foot deep closet with the doors removed. The easle sat sad and empty, waiting to fulfill it's sole purpose: to support the realized weight of this man's genius.  He was a painter. A **** good one too or so some folks said. He was still a skeptic. Houston mainly  painted to control his temper. It was his only outlet for a hair trigger rage that simmered just below his sweet and gentle demeanor. Those closest to him understood his struggle and did their best to not instigate but every once and a while they dealt with the business end of Houston Montgomery. Not a show anyone would want a repeat performance of.
       One of his so called "masterpieces" was sold to a gallery down town for twelve thousand dollars last year. Seven months had come and gone since then. . He would trade his most amazing memory to be able to rewind back to that day.  Around that time the fates must have decided Houston was having far too much fun. That very same month he also came across a down on her luck actress who went by Sylvia Stone. He had been doing pretty well for himself up until that point. Bills were paid, fridge was full and his clothes were clean.  Then everything went to ****. She was easily impressed with Houston's new money and thought jumping on this pony was better than settling for a jack ***. Houston spent more time with her than he had expected. More time than he really wanted but he had not been with a woman in many many months and she was incredible in the sack. She did this thing with her mouth that had his eyes even now rolling into his skull and his spine quivering. Too bad she turned out such a psychotic ****.
         His art started to suffer. Normally he could sit down and pump out two pieces a week. For four months straight he only produced three total and they were horrible, shamefully lack luster. He told Sylvia he needed space, that it wasn't because he did not want to be with her but that he needed more time to work. He would get a few pieces done then they could spend a week together.  She seemed understanding but distant. Houston went back to dedicating his time to his work. Hoping that after he made some money Sylvia would be open to picking up where they left off, Houston worked quickly to pump out something fantastic.  

Things were quiet and productive
for seventeen days.

**Then Sylvia called.

A is for Adam the Aardvark and his band the African Ants
B is for Broderick the bumble bee who thinks they are pants

C is for a cynical cat named Crusoe
While D is for Darwin the delightful deer
E is for Eric the elephant who always drinks my beer
F is for Fernando the Fox but in Spain he known as  Zorro
He lost his wife Matilda last week and is now brimming with sorrow
G is for Gerald and yes he is a Giraffe
He wore odd socks last Tuesday and made Heinrich the Hyena laugh
Imelda is an Iguana and she is quite immense, though she is really old but has unstoppable sense.
Jack the Jackal has a regular name but he is an assassin and has a pretty good aim
K is for Kimberly who happens to be a kangaroo but she doesn't live in the outback anymore because she lives in London Zoo

Laramie the Llama lives south of the United states , he loves hiking in the mountains but one thing he hates, is being mixed up with Arnie the Alpaca.

Monty the Moose loves drinking maple syrup and playing ice hockey,
yes he is a stereotype but I am his Jockey
Nero the Narwhal is the unicorn of the deep, he loves scaring sailors and loves to sleep
Olive the Orangutan is a neighbour of Kimberly the kangaroo
but they have a plan to escape from London Zoo.

Pug is a Pig , just a regular pig, but he wishes to be ferocious and really big
Quentin is a quail and buddies with Pug, he likes eating sunflower seeds but never a slug
Ramon the Rhinoceros also dwells in the Zoo and is part of the escape plan with The red ape and kangaroo , he'll actually be the one to bust them out,
but to get his attention you really must shout.

Sylvia slithers, Sylvia is sleek if you were a mouse and saw her, you'd go EEK!
Terence T. Tiger is terrified, because he was asked to escape from the Zoo,
yes with the Red ape , Rhino and Kangaroo.

Ulysses is a horse who super glued a horn to his fore-head , he wanted to be the last known Unicorn because he heard that they were all dead. Vincent is a Bat, just a Vampire Bat,
he doesn't really like blood but is enemies with Crusoe the Cat.

Warren the wolf has many female fans but spends half the day with Eric the Elephant drinking my cans .Xenops is not an alien , it's just a rain forest bird, I'll give you more info as soon as I've heard
Y is for Yul and I don't mean the bald actor , this Yul is a yak but does watch the X factor
Z is for a Zebra named Zak and yes he does know the Yul the Yak , they were introduced by a certain kangaroo, and now it's their job to visit London Zoo

if i was a pearl i’d feel itchy scratchy stuck inside an oyster shell if i was a tree i’d  be a big fat redwood fantasizing about Julia Butterfly Hill living and peeing around me if i was a dog i’d be a Catahoula hound if i was Italian i’d be Sicilian if i was pasta i’d be spaghetti if i was Icelandic i’d be Bjork if i was a rock star i’d be Elvis Presley Bob Dylan Jimi Hendrix Jim Morrison John Lennon Bruce Spingsteen Maynard James Keenan if i was i writer i’d be Herman Melville Mark Twain James Joyce William Faulkner Thomas Bernhard Yukio Mishima Naguib Mahfouz Phillip K. **** Gabriel Garcia Marquez Annie Proulx Lydia Davis if i was a poet i’d be Walt Whitman Sylvia Plath Ted Hughes Gwendolyn Brooks Pablo Neruda  Heather McHugh Carl Sandburg Robert Frost Arthur Rimbaud Dante Alighieri Homer if i was a painter i’d be Leonardo Da Vinci Michelangelo da Caravaggio Johan Vermeer Rembrandt van Rijn Paul Cezanne Marcel Duchamp Jackson ******* Mark Rothko Ad Reinhardt Anselm Kiefer Susan Rothenberg if i was a photographer i’d be Man Ray Ansel Adams Edward Weston Diane Arbus Robert Mapplethorpe Sally Mann Helmut Newton Richard Avedon Annie Leibovitz if i was a philosopher i’d be Socrates Plato Aristotle Jean Jacques Rousseau Sören Kierkegaard Immanuel Kant Karl Marx Georg Hegel Friedrich Nietzsche Henry David Thoreau Ralph Waldo Emerson  Jean-Paul Sartre Jean Baudrillard Michel Foucault if i was a singer i’d be Woody Guthrie Otis Redding Grace Slick Bob Marley Joni Mitchell Marvin Gaye Johnny Cash Patsy Cline June Carter Patti Smith Chrissie Hinde Nick Cave P J Harvey Beyonce if i wa a band i’d be Velvet Underground Ramones *** Pistols Clash Cure Smiths Joy Division Uncle Tupelo Pixies Nirvana Nine Inch Nails Madrugada Sigur Ros White Stripes Thee Silver Mt. Zion Memorial Orchestra Justice of the Unicorns if i was a boot i’d be Chippewa Frye Ariat Red Wing Tony Lama Wellington if i was a shoe i’d be Christian Louboutin Jimmy Choo Kedds Chaco Chuck Taylor p f flyer if i was a dress i’d be Channel Dolce & Gabbanna Giorgio Armani Marc Jacobs Comme des Garçons if i was a cowboy shirt i’d be H bar C Rockmount Temp Tex Karman Wrangler Levis Strauss Lee if i was a hat i’d be a Stetson Borsalino Stephen Jones if i was a fruit i’d be a mango apple banana blackberry if i was an scent i’d smell like fresh perspiration jasmine sandalwood ylang ylang the ocean if i was a doctor i’d be a gynecologist neurosurgeon if i was a flower i’d be a hibiscus rose orchard if i was a stone i’d be a sparkling ruby diamond opal if i was a knife i’d be a k-bar switch-blade machete if i was a gun i’d be a Remington Winchester Beretta Glock AK-47 if i was a car i’d be a Lamborghini Ferrari BMW Saab Volkswagen GTO Ford Mustang Dodge Challenger if i was a  TV show i’d be Law and Order if i was actor i’d be Charlie Chaplin Humphrey Bogart Steve McQueen Robert De Niro Ed Norton Shawn Penn if i was an actress i’d be Marlene Dietrich Ingrid Bergman Natalie Wood Audrey Hepburn Marilyn Monroe Helen Mirren  Meryil Streep Brigette Fonda Robin Wright Julianne Moore Angie Harmon if i was a female comedian i’d be Gilda Radner Lily Tomlin Nora Dunn Joan Cusack Sarah Silverman Tina Fey if i was a  football player i’d be Sid Luckman George Blanda Walter Payton **** Butkus Mike Singletary Joe Montana Jerry Rice Payton Manning LaDanian Tomlinson  Drew Breeze if i was a celebrity i’d be Charlotte Gainsbourg if i was a rapper i’d be Tupac Shakur if i was a movie director i’d be Sam Peckinpah Robert Altman Stanley Kubrick Roman Polanski Werner Herzog Rainer Fassbinder Louis Bunuel Alfred Hitchcock Jean-Luc Godard François Truffaut if i was a bird i’d be a eagle hawk sparrow bluebird if i was a fish i’d be a dolphin shark narwhal Charlie the tuna if i was breakfast i’d be a French toast pancake folded in half with 2 strips of bacon in between if i was a cold cereal i’d be snap crackle popping rice crispies shredded wheat cheerios oatmeal if i was tea i’d be Japanese green matcha Irish breakfast Tulsi Thai holy basil Lapsang souchong Luzianne Lipton if i was a soap i’d be French hand milled ayurvedic Avon Ivory Dove Pears Aveda  if i was a man i’d be a football basketball baseball tennis swimmer athlete if i was a woman i’d be a track star runner writer painter gardener doctor nurse yoga mom i'm just scratching the surface and the beat goes on lahdy dah dah

Sylvia save me
I don't really want to be
Ah! How you know me

Sylvia save me
Attraction of disaster
Natural insane

Sylvia save me
I'm starting to believe I
Won't suit for poetry

I am Sylvia Plath and decide to commit a suicide
Before night, before midnight, before any incident spoils my intention that goes totally upward, or any single communication proves it is life: generally  moves on haphazard, neither do I want be introduced as a horrible criminal never been merciful to grandiose thought in keeping self magnified or words very elegance. Away… don’t look at me in this way since reality is so horrified, since I’m a goddess with only one eye  lying beside the lake and playing with water flowing on the line of the green jungle what we call it life to shot the fingers on heavenly drops and sing the song of eternity  to confess: I’m not as honest as other gods attached to the mirror of the wall with four eyes to reflect the  realities of  people of come and go, creating   flickering and shaking atmosphere over my sights that makes me semi- blind when  three other eyes remaining behind the mirror and  one eye -goddess is not trustworthy enough in exposing the  murmurings  of  the woman reposing on river side in pledge of tuning the song of solitude with silent outcry:
La  La  La                  La La La                       La  La La     *

                                                             My Love:
How creative you are, not cruel at all, just very creative in exploring the long distance between doves of love and very cunning in employing people to excavate a chasm of agony, torturer and blood between you and I… I’ me Sylvia Plath and decide to commit a suicide, before maroon crimson night, before children know what their mother really decide, before horrible fish rises abruptly inward to devour my heart or demolish all my beauties of ladylike in shadow of  your last statement warned me  “ for what  you are still in dark?”
Dark! What a brilliant statement in the first and last and lost time, on duration of nights insomnia or feeling nausea when autumnal  rain attacked the yellow red leaves to fall to forecast that  unity is so far. When nights’ owl very kindly repeats your heart  dark…dark…when the mirror broken, eyes  spatter on all over the world, god and goddess remain eye less, completely blind, and our last reminder…your last medal on my heart still dark.
I am Sylvia Plath and decide to commit a suicide.

i.

I intentionally failed to wish you
a happy birthday this year,
though I know significant dates,
hours, moments, people,
by heart.
I still search for you in boys
I mistake for bandages,
the ones with eyes almost
the same shade of your hazels,
lips resounding your laughter,
resembling a wisp of your smile,
But they aren't you.

ii.

Sometimes I pretend you're dead,
because it's less painful
to stop reaching out into voids.

iii.

My mom still blames you
for everything that preceded that year.
Though you probably had no idea what happened
when we stopped talking altogether.
Can you believe it's almost been three years?

iv.

My dad wonders who was my 'one that got away'
Though, I'm pretty sure he knows
it's you.

v.

Remember how I mentioned Sylvia Plath?
How most everything she wrote
brimmed with melancholy?
How I loved every single word?
Especially that piece
where she talked about expectations
and disappointments.
You'll never know that
up to this day I still think
people are selfish enough to
always, eventually turn into the latter.
Even you.

vi.

It's sad I never got the chance
to tell you about Ted.
How she loved him so much,
she just had to dive headfirst
into the flames-- burning herself,
what was left of her--
after she found out
he never really loved her
the same way
she loved him
in the first place.

vii.

truth is,
some of us
never learn to accept
the love we think we deserve.

viii.

I don't know if you still read my poems
or if you still think about me,
about us, sometimes.
Every time you fall asleep past eleven,
a part of me hopes you do.
because I always remember you--
in birthday candles, red ribbons,
off-tune voice records, golden arches,
concrete sidewalks, pedestrian lanes,
the last flickers of city lights
softly fading out of the blue.
I remember you
in everything, in everywhere,
in everyone.
It's useless, no matter how much I try to forget.
No matter how much I just want to forget.
I want to forget.

But, how could I?

When forgetting means forsaking
the very memory of you.

You do not do, you do not do  
Any more, black shoe
In which I have lived like a foot  
For thirty years, poor and white,  
Barely daring to breathe or Achoo.

Daddy, I have had to **** you.  
You died before I had time——
Marble-heavy, a bag full of God,  
Ghastly statue with one gray toe  
Big as a Frisco seal

And a head in the freakish Atlantic  
Where it pours bean green over blue  
In the waters off beautiful Nauset.  
I used to pray to recover you.
Ach, du.

In the German tongue, in the Polish town  
Scraped flat by the roller
Of wars, wars, wars.
But the name of the town is common.  
My ****** friend

Says there are a dozen or two.  
So I never could tell where you  
Put your foot, your root,
I never could talk to you.
The tongue stuck in my jaw.

It stuck in a barb wire snare.  
Ich, ich, ich, ich,
I could hardly speak.
I thought every German was you.  
And the language obscene

An engine, an engine
Chuffing me off like a Jew.
A Jew to Dachau, Auschwitz, Belsen.  
I began to talk like a Jew.
I think I may well be a Jew.

The snows of the Tyrol, the clear beer of Vienna  
Are not very pure or true.
With my gipsy ancestress and my weird luck  
And my Taroc pack and my Taroc pack
I may be a bit of a Jew.

I have always been scared of you,
With your Luftwaffe, your gobbledygoo.  
And your neat mustache
And your Aryan eye, bright blue.
Panzer-man, panzer-man, O You——

Not God but a *******
So black no sky could squeak through.  
Every woman adores a Fascist,  
The boot in the face, the brute  
Brute heart of a brute like you.

You stand at the blackboard, daddy,  
In the picture I have of you,
A cleft in your chin instead of your foot  
But no less a devil for that, no not  
Any less the black man who

Bit my pretty red heart in two.
I was ten when they buried you.  
At twenty I tried to die
And get back, back, back to you.
I thought even the bones would do.

But they pulled me out of the sack,  
And they stuck me together with glue.  
And then I knew what to do.
I made a model of you,
A man in black with a Meinkampf look

And a love of the rack and the *****.  
And I said I do, I do.
So daddy, I’m finally through.
The black telephone’s off at the root,  
The voices just can’t worm through.

If I’ve killed one man, I’ve killed two——
The vampire who said he was you  
And drank my blood for a year,
Seven years, if you want to know.
Daddy, you can lie back now.

There’s a stake in your fat black heart  
And the villagers never liked you.
They are dancing and stamping on you.  
They always knew it was you.
Daddy, daddy, you *******, I’m through.

Sylvia Plath, “Daddy” from Collected Poems. Copyright © 1960, 1965, 1971, 1981 by the Estate of Sylvia Plath. Editorial matter copyright © 1981 by Ted Hughes. Used by permission of HarperCollins Publishers.
Source: Collected Poems (HarperCollins Publishers Inc, 1992)

You were my favorite Sylvia Plath poem
Your words were contemporary,
oh, you were classic in your own way, dear
How I loved the way you tasted
as your poetic melody rolled off of my lips,
as your sighs and laughter filled my head like smoke
gathering together in a room where those stoner kids
from the other street would inhale the wafts of their
sweet, sweet chocolate
You were a poem sweeter than chocolate
and I don't think anyone ever really told you
Well, I'm telling you now
even though I can't quite recall how well
you mixed with me
I don't think I ever really paid attention to that--
I suppose I was too busy reading between your
short, firm words--lyrics, perhaps
though I don't quite remember any music
I don't quite remember much aside from all
these things that I have written
I don't want to ever forget you and that's why
I'm having all of these written
You may not be as clear to me as you were before
(back when I read you far too often for my sanity)
You were my habit, my addiction--but never my vice,
for you were my favorite Sylvia Plath poem
and though my vision and my mind are both failing me,
my memory still holds you dear and your words,
oh, they still ring true to my ears.

although it was love at first sight,
we aren't sylvia and ted, darling

you won't cheat on me
or marry someone else
(coz you love me so)

and i will never need anti depressants;
for my heart will never be clenched by an owl's talon
(coz you love me so)

i will never be seized by the irrational compulsion
of putting my head in the oven
or leaving our (imaginary) kids desolate
(coz you love me so)

you give me everything i can ever want,
everything she ever wanted, but never got.
i pity sylvia,
i wish she had met you.

is Corrie ten Boom´s Favorite Quote.


The Master Weaver’s Plan

My life is but a weaving
Between the Lord and me;
I may not choose the colors–
He knows what they should be.

For He can view the pattern
Upon the upper side
While I can see it only
On this, the underside.

Sometimes He weaves in sorrow,
Which seems so strange to me;
But I will trust His judgment
And work on faithfully.

‘Tis He who fills the shuttle,
And He knows what is best;
So I shall weave in earnest,
And leave to Him the rest.

Not ’til the loom is silent
And the shuttles cease to fly
Shall God unroll the canvas
And explain the reason why.

The dark threads are as needed
In the Weaver’s skillful hand
As the threads of gold and silver
In the pattern, He has planned.

by AUTHOR UNKNOWN

Based upon research, have discovered that more than one person has been credited with authorship of this poem. For now, have decided to list it as “author unknown” until there is further clarification. Corrie ten Boom.
These words said Corrie ten Boom, the author of many many books. I feel honored and humbled that I may show you this poem she constantly presented in her life as a token of love to God and let you know about her. As Corrie ten Boom said the true author of this poem is still unknown. I am only the one who gives through.

with love, Sylvia Frances Chan
Wednesday, 20 December 2017