Quote

bike downtown, stick out tongues at the Catholics. Or form a Piss Club where we all go in the bushes and peek at each other's sex.

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
Tongue
Catholics
Catholic
Tongues
Sex
Downtown
Childhood
Bike
Games
Club
Form
Stick
Peek
Clubs
Bushes
Sticks
Piss

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Someone is dead. Even the trees know it, those poor old dancers who come on lewdly, all pea-green scarfs and spine pole.
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I love you. You are closest to my heart, closer than any other human being. You are my extension. You are my prayer. You are my belief in God. For better or worse you inherit me.
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The town is silent. The night boils with eleven stars. Oh starry starry night! This is how I want to die.
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Today life opened inside me like an egg.
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There is hope. There is hope everywhere. Today God give milk and I have the pail.
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My objects dream and wear new costumes, compelled to, it seems, by all the words in my hands and the sea that bangs in my throat.
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The fish are naked. The fish are always awake. They are the color of old spoons and caramels.
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Please God, we're all right here. Please leave us alone. Don't send death in his fat red suit and his ho-ho baritone.
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Maybe I am becoming a hermit, opening the door for only a few special animals? Maybe my skull is too crowded and it has no opening through which to feed it soup?
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It is June. I am tired of being brave.
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What's the point of fighting the dollars when all you need is a warm bed? When the dog barks you let him in. All we need is someone to let us in. And one other thing: to consider the lilies in the field.
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The body is a damn hard thing to kill.
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My sleeping pill is white. It is a splendid pearl it floats me out of myself, my stung skin as alien as a loose bolt of cloth.
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Come, my pretender, my fritter, my bubbler, my chicken biddy! Oh succulent one, it is but one turn in the road and I would be a cannibal!
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Today is made of yesterday, each time I steal toward rites I do not know, waiting for the lost ingredient, as if salt or money or even lust would keep us calm and prove us whole at last.
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As for me, I am a watercolor. I wash off.
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When they turn the sun on again I'll plant children under it, I'll light up my soul with a match and let it sing.
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Here in the hospital, I say,that is not my body, not my body.I am not here for the doctorsto read like a recipe.
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Fear / a motor, / pumps me around and around / until I fade slowly.
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I was spread out dailyand examined for flaws.
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