There they are
drooping over the breakfast plates,
angel-like,
folding in their sad wing,
animal sad,
and only the night before
there they were
playing the banjo.
Once more the day's light comes
with its immense sun,
its mother trucks,
its engines of amputation.
Whereas last night
the cock knew its way home,
as stiff as a hammer,
battering in with all
its awful power.
That theater.
Today it is tender,
a small bird,
as soft as a baby's hand.
She is the house.
He is the steeple.
When they fuck they are God.
When they break away they are God.
When they snore they are God.
In the morning they butter the toast.
They don't say much.
They are still God.
All the cocks of the world are God,
blooming, blooming, blooming
into the sweet blood of woman.
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Comments
1 - 10 of 10
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hahaha
she was really so damn innovative. I truly love her, she doesn't beat around the bush. She knows what she wants to say and she says it. Screw what the world thinks. Amazing. -
I guess there are a lot of things
that people don't know. But once they learn, there's just no stopping them from sharing it with some friends. LOL. -
this was a great write...i liked it alot...lol its so true
i kinda didnt get the first part about the breakfast table but i read thru it again and i think i get it now lol but great write
Cassie -
this was a great write...so true though! BRAVO
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it was a cool poem...but i didnt get it at first...good work!
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wow, what an extraordinary poem - i liked it very much & didn't know Sexton write like this...this was quite a find, i'll have to share it with some of my friends...
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I was confused about it but after reading it a second time..I got it. Good stuff.
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I can't decide if this is angry or just matter of fact.They are only God if you let them be.
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Heheh I thought the same thing at first.
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lol for a second i thought the cocks were drooping over the breakfast plates, but i see my error. very interesting, i enjoyed it.
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