Posts Tagged ‘anne sexton’


Monday, April 29th, 2013

Girls are very estimable presently. Most of their comportments are catty, cute, and violent. For instance, Baby Marie-Antoinette composed a letter to the Boston Police asking them to kill her. Then there’s Marie Calloway, who holds on to dear dead roses. Also, Baby Stephanie — she twirls her trademark braid basically all the time, even when she bruises.

Here are some other things that some other girls are up to:

Baby Carina, a girl who converses with rainbows and tumbles about the East Village in sashes, is about to publish her first book, Lemonworld. She made a trailer for it that features, among other things, my Portable John Milton and her harp version of Fleetwood Mac’s “Never Go Back Again.”

Mattie Barringer, who dresses like a warrior pixie, reads Anne Sexton and discusses her body image plights with awe-inspiring composure. She was recently interviewed by the constantly cutting StyleLikeU.

Lara Glenum’s third book of poems, Pop Corpse!, concerns a Virgina Woolf-cum-Sasha Grey mermaid who can only caca out of her mouth: One of the loveliest lines from the book is: “Oops, I dropped my eyes inside yr boi panties.”

Lastly, is Baby Ji Yoon colluding with North Korea?


It is Friday: Go Right Ahead

Friday, February 12th, 2010

I drank martini after martini while they “workshopped” their poems.

We extend the language.

We take our gin warm and neat.

I am writing this on a cocktail table in dim light.

My voice had a terrifying whiskey tone.

Speaking in public, be quite drunk, be manic, be very well prepared.

Planting words in you like a grass seed.

Let me sleep in your bed.

If someone burns out your eye I will take your socket and use it for an ashtray.


You do drink me.

I sounded a bit drunk—but those things do happen.

I Hurt My Neck Lifting Weights Today

Friday, June 26th, 2009


Swim Poem

Saturday, January 10th, 2009
for Barry

for Barry

The Nude Swim
by Anne Sexton

On the southwest side of Capri
we found a little unknown grotto
where no people were and we
entered it completely
and let our bodies lose all
their loneliness.

All the fish in us
had escaped for a minute.
The real fish did not mind.
We did not disturb their personal life.
We calmly trailed over them
and under them, shedding
air bubbles, little white
balloons that drifted up
into the sun by the boat
where the Italian boatman slept
with his hat over his face.