Quote

I'll Vacuum up my stale hair, I'll pay all my neighbors' bad debts, I'll write a poem called Yellow and put my lips down to drink it up.

Anne Sexton

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Anne Sexton
Age: 45 †
Born: 1928
Born: November 9
Died: 1974
Died: October 4
Poet
Writer
Newton
Massachusetts
Anne Gray Harvey
Joy
Poem
Called
Neighbor
Hope
Debt
Debts
Write
Lips
Vacuums
Writing
Motivation
Vacuum
Pay
Stale
Drink
Neighbors
Hair
Yellow

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What's missing is the eyeballs in each of us, but it doesn't matter because you've got the bucks, the bucks, the bucks.
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Then God spoke to me and said: People say only good things about Christmas. If they want to say something bad, they whisper.
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And tonight our skin, our bones, that have survived our fathers, will meet, delicate in the hold, fastened together in an intricate lock. Then one of us will shout, My need is more desperate! and I will eat you slowly with kisses even though the killer in you has gotten out.
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The ground has on its clothes. The trees poke out of sheets and each branch wears the sock of God.
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Yes I try to kill myself in small amounts, an innocuous occupation. Actually I'm hung up on it.
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I would like to think that no one would die anymore if we all believed in daisies but the worms know better, don't they? They slide into the ear of a corpse and listen to his great sigh.
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Frog has no nerves. Frog is as old as a cockroach. Frog is my father's genitals. Frog is a malformed doorknob. Frog is a soft bag of green.
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It is in the small things we see it. The child's first step, as awesome as an earthquake. The first time you rode a bike, wallowing up the sidewalk.
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I would sell my life to avoid the pain that begins in the crib with its bars or perhaps with your first breath when the planets drill your future into you.
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All day I've built a lifetime and now the sun sinks to undo it.
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Poetry is my life, my postmark, my hands, my kitchen, my face.
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I am your dwarf. I am the enemy within. I am the boss of your dreams. See. Your hand shakes. It is not palsy or booze. It is your Doppelganger trying to get out. Beware...Beware...
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you see, we live in a cold climate and are not permitted to kiss on the street so I made up a song that wasn't true. I made up a song called Marriage.
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For I could not read or speak and on the long nights I could not turn the moon off or count the lights of cars across the ceiling.
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Craft is a trick you make up to let you write the poem.
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The Saints come, as human as a mouth, with a bag of God in their backs, like a hunchback, they come, they come marching in.
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... and my love stays bitterly glowing, spasms of it will not sleep, and I am helpless and thirsty and need shade but there is no one to cover me- not even God.
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I am alone here in my own mind. There is no map and there is no road. It is one of a kind just as yours is.
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I have a black look I do not like. It is a mask I try on. I migrate toward it and its frog sits on my lips and defecates.
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I raise my pelvis to God so that it may know the truth of how flowers smash through the long winter.
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