Tag Archive: suicide

What a dedication to poor and broken Anne Sexton!
You leave me speechless, Billy!
For once I must shut up.


Bily’s Recital:

Adelle’s Recital:

For you, my confessor,
from the garter-belt of my soul;
to the undergarments of my hell,
pressed upon the Hoffman.
Pressed within the steam of a child god.

The room cocoons me like a shroud
I’m a penguin out of water,
a fish out of oxygen;
facing the corner, crying poetry.
Feeling myself through cotton knickers.
You father, who thinks to sanitise me,
with your overbearing mouth.
You father, who wishes to own this parody of a sylph
you have always owned me.
I hate you for owning.

Words for you mother,
my words, bee stings that branded you.
Branded and stung you over and over,
Not lies but truths
hovering in your face, like a humming bird
sliding its tongue down that selfish throat.
You mother, who choked and gagged
like a toothless whore on them;
they were all of my own birthing
Mrs. Gray Harvey, my mother dear.

I see you loitering in my light,
like vampire moths ready to suck me,
ready to drink me; tête-a-tête.
I gave you poetry and you gave me what,
the catwalk, the dark catwalk
that gave you invisibility behind your garish flashbulbs?
why must it always be the dark, dark, dark.

My microphone; my husband’s cock,
they listen like depraved monks
begging me to put out.
I live through them, wet with life and words.
Why do you, husband, force me? I feel alive and dead,
unsure which shoreline to follow.
Your grains of sand sharp and painful.

I know that much;
no don’t touch me, I’m alone without hands,
to reach out, whom can I touch —
I know that much;
left in my naked reality
under a blanket of dark
light and isolation. a thorazine queen
barefoot and belt-less.
Will you feel my breasts,
my spine, a calf, the crease of me?
Feel them.
Bring me back.
Light me a cigarette.
Is anyone there, hello?

I the canary sang
for you,
you who would allow me to be gassed
snuffed, like the flame of a paper match.
Even when you parted me I was alone;
ready to be impaled like a piece of pork
and left on the heat of dead coals.

And I?
I rest with help, the fumes of carbon plumes
put my anguished self to sleep, read on the third,
dead on the fourth. The irony of death,
smoke inhalation to the extreme.
Sing me a cigarette in stilettos.
Sing me a vodka with olive.
Sing me a bed with Linda, divine Linda,
child of my fucking loins.
Loin of my unhappy thrush, song-less
among the dying magnolia.

I know that much;
I know of a girl in a room
Locked away like a dangerous thought.

Please give the poetry forum a visit at pigpenpoetry.com



In the heart of the heart* of my heart

I saved the myselfs of myself,


and I saved them so well, that

I feel like I buried them instead:

I saved them to death.


As a Lazarus I live now

a life beyond human existence

and ever so slowly it turns out

to get problematic:


Now that I am a wandering god

among painfeeling humans,

I am ever so slowly becoming

aware of the fact, that

when I decided to leave,

I ostracized myself.


I am a wandering wall now

and it is all but easy

to find another female wall

to commune with.


But this somewhat belated epiphany

notwithstanding, candor compels me to admit,

that I most likely had, when I killed myself,

made the wrong decision,


because the constant pain,

I was gifted with for free,

whenever I fell in,

and my lover, almost immediately

afterwards, out of love, I

could not endure anymore.




* William Gass: In the heart of the heart of the country


Berryman, huffed, off

[Minneapolis, Washington Avenue Bridge 01-07-72]


I saw the river smile sadly beneath the

immaculate bridge. Your ghost is

tumbling on your curly grave,

petted by America’s tachycardiac immensity

inside that huge machinery sweating out

victorious nightmares whereas you

roamed on exile behind the curtains of

the Globe king-lear in your dreams than

in bed-sheet crumblings sort-outs.

Your well-reflected pace had crashed and


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