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Oh thumb, I want a drink it is dark, where are the big people, when will I get there...?

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
Dark
Bigs
People
Thumb
Thumbs
Childhood
Drink

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O fallen angel, the companion within me, whisper something holy before you pinch me into the grave.
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Yes, I know. Death sits with his key in my lock. Not one day is taken for granted. Even nursery rhymes have put me in hock.
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Loving me with my shoes off means loving my long brown legs, sweet dears, as good as spoons and my feet, those two children let out to play naked.
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Blue eyes wash off sometimes.
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My faith is a great weight hung on a small wire, as doth the spider hang her baby on a thin web.
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Our children tremble in their teen-age cribs, whirling off on a thumb or a motorcycle.
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Writers are such phonies: they sometimes have wise insights but they don't live by them at all. That's what writers are like...you think they know something, but usually they are just messes.
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think of innocent Icarus who is doing quite well: larger than a sail, over the fog and the blast of the plushy ocean, he goes. Admire his wings!
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I am stuffing your mouth with your promises and watching you vomit them out upon my face.
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I am out of practice at living. You are as brave as a motorcycle.
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My business is words. Words are like labels, or coins, or better, like swarming bees.
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Of course the New Testament is very small. Its mouth opens four times as out-of-date as a prehistoric monster, yet somehow man-made.
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I brush my hair, waiting in the pain machine for my bones to get hard, for the soft, soft bones that were laid apart and were screwed together. They will knit. And the other corpse, the fractured heart, I feed it piecemeal, little chalice. I'm good to it.
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Let there be seasons so that our tongues will be rich in asparagus and limes.
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Jewels! Today each twig is important, each ring, each infection, each form is all that the gods must have meant.
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unless I can shake myself free of my dog, my flag, of my desk, my mind, I find life a bit of a drag. Not always, mind you. Usually I'm like my frying pan useful, graceful, sturdy and with no caper, no plan.
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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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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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The place I live in is a kind of maze and I keep seeking the exit or the home.
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Be careful of words, / ... they can be both daisies and bruises.
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