Andare, Partire, Tornare

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poetry corner

Second entry of the day, for those who care: and this one is just for poetry. I'm sure you can also guess what I've been up to.

The Fury of Cocks

There they are
drooping over the breakfast plates,
angel-like,
folding in their sad wing,
animal sad,
and only the night before
there they were
playing the banjo.
Once more the day's light comes
with its immense sun,
its mother trucks,
its engines of amputation.
Whereas last night
the cock knew its way home,
as stiff as a hammer,
battering in with all
its awful power.
That theater.
Today it is tender,
a small bird,
as soft as a baby's hand.
She is the house.
He is the steeple.
When they fuck they are God.
When they break away they are God.
When they snore they are God.
In the morning they butter the toast.
They don't say much.
They are still God.
All the cocks of the world are God,
blooming, blooming, blooming
into the sweet blood of woman.

--Anne Sexton

(for Weetabix - she's also written a poem called "in Celebration of my Uterus" - you might want to read it to soothe and pacify your uterus when it gets ornery.) Oh, and "playing the banjo" has to be one of the neatest/weirdest euphemisms for sex that I've ever come accros.

4:29 p.m. - 2002-06-22

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