( via / me )

Insect 4.

"The Black Art

A woman who writes feels too much,
those trances and portents!
As if cycles and children and islands
weren't enough; as if mourners and gossips
and vegetables were never enough.
She thinks she can warn the stars.
A writer is essentially a spy.
Dear love, I am that girl.

A man who writes knows too much,
such spells and fetiches!
As if erections and congresses and products
weren't enough; as if machines and galleons
and wars were never enough.
With used furniture he makes a tree.
A writer is essentially a crook.
Dear love, you are that man.

Never loving ourselves,
hating even our shoes and our hats,
we love each other, precious, precious.
Our hands are light blue and gentle.
Our eyes are full of terrible confessions.
But when we marry,
the children leave in disgust.
There is too much food and no one left over
to eat up all the weird abundance.”

–Anne Sexton via chris bourke on fb

"To know this is forgiveness."

" 'So she forgets your wisdom and wit, Plautus.'
'I do not see how a cat can have wit.'
'Oh, he has made several bright remarks to me this morning,' said Miss Wolsey. 'He came into my room in quite a facetious spirit. I could hardly keep up with him.' "

--@icomptonburnett

"What's the use of the taste of coffee?"