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

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stop the darkness and its amputations and find the real McCoy in the private holiness of my hands.
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Watch out for intellect, because it knows so much it knows nothing and leaves you hanging upside down, mouthing knowledge as your heart falls out of your mouth.
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Every time I get happy the Nana-hex comes through. Birds turn into plumber's tools, a sonnet turns into a dirty joke, a wind turns into a tracheotomy, a boat turns into a corpse.
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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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They [daisies] are my favorite flower. There is something innocent and vulnerable about them as if they thanked you for admiring them.
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I who was a house full of bowel movement, I who was a defaced altar, I who wanted to crawl toward God could not move nor eat bread.
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I leave you, home, when I'm ripped from the doorstep by commerce or fate. Then I submit to the awful subway of the world.
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My life has appeared unclothed in court, detail by detail, death-bone witness by death-bone witness, and I was shamed at the verdict.
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My husband sings Baa Baa black sheep and we pretend that all's certain and good, that the marriage won't end.
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God has a brown voice, as soft and full as beer.
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And what of the dead? They lie without shoes in the stone boats. They are more like stone than the sea would be if it stopped. They refuse to be blessed, throat, eye and knucklebone.
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I am torn in two but I will conquer myself.
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My eyes, those sluts, those whores, would play no more.
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Thief!- how did you crawl into, crawl down alone into the death I wanted so badly and for so long.
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Some women marry houses. It's another kind of skin it has a heart, a mouth, a liver and bowel movements.
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I did not know the woman I would be nor that blood would bloom in me each month like an exotic flower, nor that children, two monuments, would break from between my legs.
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The snow has quietness in it no songs, no smells, no shouts or traffic. When I speak my own voice shocks me.
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Mood can be as important as sense.
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Suicide is, after all, the opposite of the poem.
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My heart is on a budget. It keeps me on the brink.
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