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Lady Lzarus By: Sylvia Plath

I have done it again.
One year in every ten
I manage it-

A sort of walking miracle, my skin
Bright as a Nazi lampshade
My right foot

A paperweight,
My face a featureless, fine
Jew linen.

Peel off the napkin
O my enemy.
Do I terrify?-

The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth?
The sour breath
Will vanish in a day.

Soon, soon the flesh
The grave cave ate will be
at home on me

And i a smiling woman.
I am only thirty.
And like the cat I have nine times to die.

This is number three.
What a trash
To annihilate each decade.

What a million filaments.
The peanut-crunching crowd
Shoves in to see

Them unwrap me hand and foot-
The big strip tease.
Gentlemen, ladies

These are my hands
My knees.
I may be skin and bone,

Nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman.
The first time it happened I was ten.
It was an accident.

Then the second time i meant
To last it out and not come back at all.
I rocked shut

As a seashell
They had to call and call
And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.

Dying
Is an art, like everything else.
I do it exceptionally well.

I do it so it feels like hell.
i do it so it feels real.
I guess you could say I've a call.

It's easy enough to do it in a cell.
It's easy enough to do it and stay puy.
It's the theatrical

Comeback in broad day
To the same place, the same face, the same brute
Amused shout:

'A miracle!'
That knocks me out.
There is a charge

For the eyeing of my scars, there is a charge
For the hearing of my heart-
It really goes.

And there is a charge, a very large charge
For a word or a touch
Or a bit of blood

Or a piece of my hair or my clothes.
So, so, Herr Doktor.
So, Herr Enemy.

I am your opus,
I am your valuable,
The pure gold baby

The melts to a shreik.
I turn and burn.
Do not think I underestimate your great concern.

Ash, ash-
You poke and stir
Flesh, bone, there is nothing there-

A cake of soap,
A wedding ring,
A gold filling.

Herr God, Herr Lucifer
Beware
Beware.

Out of the ash
I rise with my red hair
And i eat men like air.

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Deja Vu Again By: Stan Rice


Love went riding in a hearse
With me behind her in the flower car
We stopped beside a hole where she
Was put by men who could not see.
I did not know we had just come there to rehearse.
It burns before me like a tree
Aflame with treeness, clear and whole.
I wish my thoughts could see their fill
Of that invinsibility.
They never will. I see and see and see the film
Of cadillac in which Love rode
With me behind her in the flower car,
Dressed fit to kill.

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Look! By: Stan Rice

Look! She is dead: no cover can cover her: look,
her hands are dead just as her face is dead: all of her is dead:
where is the soul? she looked no lighter on the pillow when it went.
My eyes fill with water that falls from under my sunglasses:
when bells ring: even the oxygen grieves:
surely this is not what she was meant for:
look! a shaft of light pierces the dustball: just that effortlessly

she went.

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Click-click: tick-tick
Clock snips time in two
Lap of rain
In the drain pipe
Two o' clock
And never you
Never you, down the evening,
I cannot
Cry, or even smile
Acidly or botter-sweetly
For never you and incompletely.
Things surround me;
I could touch
Soap or toothbrush
Desk or chair.
Nevcer mind the three dimensions
All is flat, and you not there.
Letters, paper, stamps
And white. And black.
Typewritten-you, and there
It is.
The trickle, liquid trickle
Of rain in drain-pipe
Is voice enough
For me tonight.
And the click-click
Of the clock
Is pain enough,
enough heart-beat
For me tonight.
The narrow cot
The iron bed
Is space enough
And warmth enough...
Enough, enough.
To bed and sleep
And tearless creep
The fromless seconds
Minutes hours
And never you
The raindrops weep
And never you
And tick- tick
Tick-tick
Pass the hours.

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This is an exceprt from Johnny Panic and the Bible of Dreams, short stories, prose and diary exceprts from sylvia plath. this piece was from an essay written in 1962.

Breath, that is the first thing. Something is brathing. My own breath? The breath of my mother? No, something else, something larger, farther, more serious, more weary. So behind shut lids i float awhile; I'm a small sea captian, tasting the day's weather-battering rams at the seawall, a spray of grapeshot on my mother's brave geraniums, or the lulling shoosh-shoosh of a full, mirrory pool; the pool turns the quartz grits at its rim idly and kindly, a lady brooding at jewelry. There might be a hiss of rain on the pane, there might be wind sighing and trying the creaks of the house like keys. I was not deceived by these. The motherly pulse of the sea made mock of such counterfeits. Like a deep woman, it hid a good deal; it had many faces, many delicate, terrible veils. It spoke of miracles and distances; if it could court, it could also kill.

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i found this poem on otherywayup.com it's got a link to the old curiosity shop. it was written by Lord Hade. anything i copy and podst in my blogs that are written by other people will not be used as my own. i give credit where credit is due.


WASTED AGAIN

wasted again
the sun never shines upon body
lightning stretches across the midnight sky

I lay here in the street drunk again
watching the people pass me by,
watching and staring and laughing

they don't know what I've been through
they don't know what it took to get me here
only make enough money for a sandwhich
and a bottle of whiskey

I lay there thinking what I did to get here
where did I go wrong
I was always told to follow my dreams
and look where they got me

burned out on too much drugs
haven't seen the sun in so very long
they should bury me here to save some time

spare change here
cleaning out a wishing fountain to get some dinner
where did the care-free go

I listened to my heart
and ended up on the streets
stuffing my shirt full of newspaper to keep warm

maybe i can sneak in the library
they have heaters in there
don't want to go back to jail

wish I could pick myself up
but the alcohol just knocks me back down
I got too wasted again
_________________
Come with me, right on to the edge of your mind, we're standing on the edge and ready to die.

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Free Comments & Graphics

Just one of those days when you just feel like hurting everyone.

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"I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;
I lift my lids and all is born again.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

The stars go waltzing out in blue and red,
And arbitrary blackness gallops in:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed
And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

God topples from the sky, hell's fires fade:
Exit seraphim and Satan's men:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I fancied you'd return the way you said,
But I grow old and I forget your name.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

I should have loved a thunderbird instead;
At least when spring comes they roar back again.
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)"

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To see a world in a grain of sand
And a heaven in a wild flower,
Hold infinity in the palm of your hand
And eternity in an hour.
A robin redbreast in a cage
Puts all heaven in a rage.
A dove-house filled with doves and pigeons
Shudders hell through all its regions.
A dog starved at his master's gate
Predicts the ruin of the state.
A horse misused upon the road
Calls to heaven for human blood.
Each outcry of the hunted hare
A fibre from the brain does tear.
A skylark wounded in the wing,
A cherubim does cease to sing.
The game-cock clipped and armed for fight
Does the rising sun affright.
Every wolf's and lion's howl
Raises from hell a human soul.
The wild deer wandering here and there
Keeps the human soul from care.
The lamb misused breeds public strife,
And yet forgives the butcher's knife.
The bat that flits at close of eve
Has left the brain that won't believe.
The owl that calls upon the night
Speaks the unbeliever's fright.
He who shall hurt the little wren
Shall never be beloved by men.
He who the ox to wrath has moved
Shall never be by woman loved.
The wanton boy that kills the fly
Shall feel the spider's enmity.
He who torments the chafer's sprite
Weaves a bower in endless night.
The caterpillar on the leaf
Repeats to thee thy mother's grief.
Kill not the moth nor butterfly,
For the Last Judgment draweth nigh.
He who shall train the horse to war
Shall never pass the polar bar.
The beggar's dog and widow's cat,
Feed them, and thou wilt grow fat.
The gnat that sings his summer's song
Poison gets from Slander's tongue.
The poison of the snake and newt
Is the sweat of Envy's foot.
The poison of the honey-bee
Is the artist's jealousy.
The prince's robes and beggar's rags
Are toadstools on the miser's bags.
A truth that's told with bad intent
Beats all the lies you can invent.
It is right it should be so:
Man was made for joy and woe;
And when this we rightly know
Through the world we safely go.
Joy and woe are woven fine,
A clothing for the soul divine.
Under every grief and pine
Runs a joy with silken twine.
The babe is more than swaddling bands,
Throughout all these human lands;
Tools were made and born were hands,
Every farmer understands.
Every tear from every eye
Becomes a babe in eternity;
This is caught by females bright
And returned to its own delight.
The bleat, the bark, bellow, and roar
Are waves that beat on heaven's shore.
The babe that weeps the rod beneath
Writes Revenge! in realms of death.
The beggar's rags fluttering in air
Does to rags the heavens tear.
The soldier armed with sword and gun
Palsied strikes the summer's sun.
The poor man's farthing is worth more
Than all the gold on Afric's shore.
One mite wrung from the labourer's hands
Shall buy and sell the miser's lands,
Or if protected from on high
Does that whole nation sell and buy.
He who mocks the infant's faith
Shall be mocked in age and death.
He who shall teach the child to doubt
The rotting grave shall ne'er get out.
He who respects the infant's faith
Triumphs over hell and death.
The child's toys and the old man's reasons
Are the fruits of the two seasons.
The questioner who sits so sly
Shall never know how to reply.
He who replies to words of doubt
Doth put the light of knowledge out.
The strongest poison ever known
Came from Caesar's laurel crown.
Nought can deform the human race
Like to the armour's iron brace.
When gold and gems adorn the plough
To peaceful arts shall Envy bow.
A riddle or the cricket's cry
Is to doubt a fit reply.
The emmet's inch and eagle's mile
Make lame philosophy to smile.
He who doubts from what he sees
Will ne'er believe, do what you please.
If the sun and moon should doubt,
They'd immediately go out.
To be in a passion you good may do,
But no good if a passion is in you.
The whore and gambler, by the state
Licensed, build that nation's fate.
The harlot's cry from street to street
Shall weave old England's winding sheet.
The winner's shout, the loser's curse,
Dance before dead England's hearse.
Every night and every morn
Some to misery are born.
Every morn and every night
Some are born to sweet delight.
Some are born to sweet delight,
Some are born to endless night.
We are led to believe a lie
When we see not through the eye
Which was born in a night to perish in a night,
When the soul slept in beams of light.
God appears, and God is light
To those poor souls who dwell in night,
But does a human form display
To those who dwell in realms of day.


William Blake

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