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Man is a bird full of mud, I say aloud. And death looks on with a casual eye and scratches his anus.

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
Full
Eye
Anus
Death
Aloud
Looks
Mud
Men
Scratches
Casual
Bird
Mankind

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So I won't hang around in my hospital shift, repeating The Black Mass and all of it. I say Live, Live because of the sun, the dream, the excitable gift.
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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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Images are the heart of poetry ... You're not a poet without imagery.
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But even in a telephone booth evil can seep out of the receiver and we must cover it with a mattress, and then tear it from its roots and bury it, bury it.
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The sky breaks. It sags and breathes upon my face. in the presence of mine enemies, mine enemies The world is full of enemies. There is no safe place.
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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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This is what poems are: with mercy for the greedy, they are the tongue's wrangle, the world's pottage, the rat's star.
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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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And within the house ashes are being stuffed into my marriage, fury is lapping the walls, dishes crack on the shelves, a strangler needs my throat, the daughter has ceased to eat anything.
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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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Being kissed on the back of the knee is a moth at the windowscreen.
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All in all, I'd say, the world is strangling.
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Suddenly I'm not half the girl I used to be. There's a shadow hanging over me . . . From me to you out of my electric devil.
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Love? Be it man. Be it woman. It must be a wave you want to glide in on, give your body to it, give your laugh to it, give, when the gravelly sand takes you, your tears to the land. To love another is something like prayer and can't be planned, you just fall into its arms because your belief undoes your disbelief.
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The grass as bristly and stout as chives and me wondering when the ground will break and me wondering how anything fragile survives
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Big heart, wide as a watermelon, but wise as birth, there is so much abundance in the people I have.
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Daylight is nobody's friend. God comes in like a landlord and flashes on his brassy lamp.
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I have been cut in two.
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My eyes, those sluts, those whores, would play no more.
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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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