Emotions and Feelings

What a thrill— My thumb instead of an onion.

Out of the ash I rise with my red hair And I eat men like air.

Dying Is an art, like everything else. I do it exceptionally well. I do it so it feels like hell. I do it so it feels real. I guess you could say I’ve a call.

I have done it again.

I took a deep breath and listened to the old brag of my heart.

A living doll, everywhere you look. It can sew, it can cook, It can talk, talk, talk…. My boy, it’s your last resort. Will you marry it, marry it, marry it.

When I am an old woman I shall wear purple With a red hat which doesn’t go, and doesn’t suit me.

It is still beautiful to feel your heart throbbing. But often the shadow feels more real than the body.

The rat is in the trap, it is in the trap, And attacking heaven and earth with a mouthful of screeches like torn tin.

My visionary anger cleansing my sight.

A thinking woman sleeps with monsters. The beak that grips her, she becomes.

Beauty is a simple passion, but, oh my friends, in the end you will dance the fire dance in iron shoes.

You, Doctor Martin, walk from breakfast to madness. Late August, I speed through the antiseptic tunnel where the moving dead still talk of pushing their bones against the thrust of cure. And I am queen of this summer hotel or the laughing bee on a stalk of death.

I have gone out, a possessed witch, haunting the black air, braver at night.

History, despite its wrenching pain, Cannot be unlived, but if faced With courage, need not be lived again.

You may trod me in the very dirt But still, like dust, I’ll rise.

Something like living occurs, a movement Out of the dream into its codification.

My quietness has a man in it, he is transparent and he carries me quietly, like a gondola, through the streets.

LANA TURNER HAS COLLAPSED! there is no snow in Hollywood there is no rain in California I have been to lots of parties and acted perfectly disgraceful but I never actually collapsed oh Lana Turner we love you get up

oh god it’s wonderful to get out of bed and drink too much coffee and smoke too many cigarettes and love you so much

O mother what have I left out O mother what have I forgotten

I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked, dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night.

America I’ve given you all and now I’m nothing.

How can I die alone. Where will I be then who am now alone, what groans so pathetically in this room where I am alone?