Random Dark & Sexy

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  Lady Lazarus

I have done it again.

  One year in every ten

  I manage it——

  A sort of walking miracle, my skin

  Bright as a Nazi lampshade,

  My right foot

  A paperweight,

       My face a featureless, 


 a fine linen

   Peel off the napkin

  0 my enemy.

  Do I terrify?——

  The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth?

  The sour breath

  Will vanish in a day.

  Soon, soon the flesh

  The grave cave ate will be

  At home on me

  And I a smiling woman.

  I am only thirty.

  And like the cat I have nine times to die.

  This is Number Three.

  What a trash

  To annihilate each decade.

  What a million filaments.

  The peanut-crunching crowd

  Shoves in to see

  Them unwrap me hand and foot

  The big strip tease.

  Gentlemen, ladies

  These are my hands

  My knees.

  I may be skin and bone,

  Nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman.

  The first time it happened I was ten.

  It was an accident.

  The second time I meant

  To last it out and not come back at all.

  I rocked shut

  As a seashell.

  They had to call and call

  And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.


  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.

  It’s easy enough to do it in a cell.

  It’s easy enough to do it and stay put.

  It’s the theatrical

  Comeback in broad day

  To the same place, the same face, the same brute

  Amused shout:

  ‘A miracle!’

  That knocks me out.

  There is a charge

  For the eyeing of my scars, there is a charge

  For the hearing of my heart——

  It really goes.

  And there is a charge, a very large charge

  For a word or a touch

  Or a bit of blood

  Or a piece of my hair or my clothes.

  So, so, Herr Doktor.

  So, Herr Enemy.

  I am your opus,

  I am your valuable,

  The pure gold baby

  That melts to a shriek.

  I turn and burn.

  Do not think I underestimate your great concern.

  Ash, ash —-

  You poke and stir.

  Flesh, bone, there is nothing there——

  A cake of soap,

  A wedding ring,

  A gold filling.

  Her God, Her Lucifer



  Out of the ash

  I rise with my red hair

  And I eat men like air


 Sylvia Plath



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