The end of the affair is always death. She’s my workshop. Slippery eye, out of the tribe of myself my breath finds you gone. I horrify those who stand by. I am fed. At night, alone, I marry the bed.
Finger to finger, now she’s mine. She’s not too far. She’s my encounter. I beat her like a bell. I recline in the bower where you used to mount her. You borrowed me on the flowered spread. At night, alone, I marry the bed.
Take for instance this night, my love, that every single couple puts together with a joint overturning, beneath, above, the abundant two on sponge and feather, kneeling and pushing, head to head. At night alone, I marry the bed.
I break out of my body this way, an annoying miracle. Could I put the dream market on display? I am spread out. I crucify. My little plum is what you said. At night, alone, I marry the bed.
Then my black-eyed rival came. The lady of water, rising on the beach, a piano at her fingertips, shame on her lips and a flute’s speech. And I was the knock-kneed broom instead. At night, alone, I marry the bed.
She took you the way a woman takes a bargain dress off the rack and I broke the way a stone breaks. I give back your books and fishing tack. Today’s paper says that you are wed. At night, alone, I marry the bed.
The boys and girls are one tonight. They unbutton blouses. They unzip flies. They take off shoes. They turn off the light. The glimmering creatures are full of lies. They are eating each other. They are overfed. At night, alone, I marry the bed.
Music Swims Back to Me
by Anne Sexton
Wait Mister. Which way is home? They turned the light out and the dark is moving in the corner. There are no sign posts in this room, four ladies, over eighty, in diapers every one of them. La la la, Oh music swims back to me and I can feel the tune they played the night they left me in this private institution on a hill.
Imagine it. A radio playing and everyone here was crazy. I liked it and danced in a circle. Music pours over the sense and in a funny way music sees more than I. I mean it remembers better; remembers the first night here. It was the strangled cold of November; even the stars were strapped in the sky and that moon too bright forking through the bars to stick me with a singing in the head. I have forgotten all the rest.
They lock me in this chair at eight a.m. and there are no signs to tell the way, just the radio beating to itself and the song that remembers more than I. Oh, la la la, this music swims back to me. The night I came I danced a circle and was not afraid. Mister?
Βουκόλος: (ο) (λογ.)πρόσωπο που οδηγεί ζώα και ιδιαίτερα βόδια, στη βοσκή ΣΥΝ. γελαδάρης, αγελαδοβοσκός.
Υπονομευτές του αρκετοί, γράφουν, δημοσιέφκουν, ποστάρουν, που παντού διασταυρωμένοι τζαι άνευ λογοκρισίας.