All who love have lied.
The place I live in is a kind of maze and I keep seeking the exit or the home.
Let the light be called Day so that men may grow corn or take busses.
Today life opened inside me like an egg.
God went out of me as if the sea dried up like sandpaper, as if the sun became a latrine. God went out of my fingers. They became stone. My body became a side of mutton and despair roamed the slaughterhouse.
Even without wars, life is dangerous.
I think I've been writing black poems all along, wearing my white mask. I'm always the victim ... but no longer!
I rot on the wall, my own Dorian Gray.
Emerald as heavy as a golf course, ruby as dark as an afterbirth, diamond as white as sun on the sea.
You lay, a small knuckle on my white bed; lay, that fist like a snail, small and strong at my breast. Your lips are animals; you are fed with love. At first, hunger is not wrong.
Yesterday I did not want to be borrowed but this is the typewriter that sits before me and love is where yesterday is at.
I sit at my desk each night with no place to go, opening the wrinkled maps of Milwaukee and Buffalo, the whole U.S., its cemeteries, its arbitrary time zones, through routes like small veins, capitals like small stones.
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.
I can only sign over everything, the house, the dog, the ladders, the jewels, the soul, the family tree, the mailbox. Then I can sleep. Maybe.
Somebody who should have been born is gone. Yes, woman, such logic will lead to loss without death. Or say what you meant, you coward . . . this baby that I bleed.
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!
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...
I was only sitting here in my white study with the awful black words pushing me around.
Now that I have written many words, and let out so many loves, for so many, and been altogether what I always was a woman of excess, of zeal and greed, I find the effort useless.
Yet love enters my blood like an I.V., dripping in its little white moments.
... and my love stays bitterly glowing, spasms of it will not sleep, and I am helpless and thirsty and need shade but there is no one to cover me- not even God.
[I] have fantasies of killing myself and thus being the powerful one not the powerless one.
And if I tried to give you something else, something outside myself, you would not know that the worst of anyone can be, finally, an accident of hope
I like you; your eyes are full of language." [Letter to Anne Clarke, July 3, 1964.]
It is a dead heart. It is inside of me. It is a stranger yet once it was agreeable, opening and closing like a clam.
Follow AzQuotes on Facebook, Twitter and Google+. Every day we present the best quotes! Improve yourself, find your inspiration, share with friends
or simply: