Life and Existence

Lately, I’ve become accustomed to the way The ground opens up and envelops me Each time I go out to walk the dog.

And now I Foam to wheat, a glitter of seas.

White Godiva, I unpeel— Dead hands dead stringencies.

White Godiva, I unpeel— Dead hands dead stringencies.

The woman is perfected. Her dead Body wears the smile of accomplishment, The illusion of a Greek necessity Flows in the scrolls of her toga, Her bare Feet seem to be saying: We have come so far, it is over.

The woman is perfected. Her dead Body wears the smile of accomplishment, The illusion of a Greek necessity Flows in the scrolls of her toga, Her bare Feet seem to be saying: We have come so far, it is over.

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

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.

I came to explore the wreck.

I came to explore the wreck.

I came to see the damage that was done and the treasures that prevail. I stroke the beam of my lamp slowly along the flank of something more permanent than fish or weed.

I came to see the damage that was done and the treasures that prevail. I stroke the beam of my lamp slowly along the flank of something more permanent than fish or weed.

There is a ladder. The ladder is always there hanging innocently close to the side of the schooner.

The moment of change is the only poem.

I am an instrument in the shape of a woman trying to translate pulsations into images for the relief of the body and the reconstruction of the mind.

I am an instrument in the shape of a woman trying to translate pulsations into images for the relief of the body and the reconstruction of the mind.

Piece by piece I seem to re-enter the world.

Your mind now, moldering like wedding-cake, heavy with useless experience, rich with suspicion, rumor, fantasy, crumbling to pieces under the knife-edge of mere fact.

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

The seasons are no longer what they once were, But it is the nature of things to be seen only once, As they happen along, bumping into other things, getting along Somehow. That’s where Orpheus made his mistake.

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