With this pen I take in hand my selves and with these dead disciples I will grapple. Though rain curses the window let the poem be made.
Poets are sitting in my kitchen. Why do these poets lie? Why do children get children and Did you hear what it said?
You cutting the lawn, fixing the machines, all this leprous day and then more vodka, more soda and the pond forgiving our bodies, the pond sucking out the throb.
the marriage twists, holds firm, a sailor's knot.
My husband sings Baa Baa black sheep and we pretend that all's certain and good, that the marriage won't end.
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!
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.
Follow AzQuotes on Facebook, Twitter and Google+. Every day we present the best quotes! Improve yourself, find your inspiration, share with friends
or simply: