A fine site

Fever 103 deg

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by Sylvia Plath

Pure? What does it mean?

The tongues of hell

Are dull,dull,dull as the triple.

Tongues of dull, fat Cerberus

Who wheezes at the gate. Incapable.

Of licking clean.

The aguey tendon, the sin, the sin.

The tinder cries.

The indelible smell.

Of a snuffed candle!

Love, love,the low smoke roll

From me like Isadoras’s scarves, I’m in a fright

One scarf will catch and anchor in the wheel.

Such yellow sullen smokes

Make their own element. They will not rise,

But trundle round the globe

Choking the aged and the meek,

The weak

Hothouse baby in it’s crib,

The ghastly orchid

Hanging it’s hanging garden in the air,

Devilish leopard!

Radiation turned it white

and killed it in an hour

Greasing the bodies of adulterers

Like Hiroshima ash and eating in.

The sin. The sin.

Darling,all night.

I have been flickering, off, on, off, on.

The sheets grown heavy as a lecher’s kiss.

Three days. Three nights.

Lemon water chicken

Water, water make me retch.

I am too pure for you or anyone.

Your body

Hurts me as the world hurts God. I am a lantern-

My head a moon

Of Japanese paper, my gold beaten skin

Infinitely delicate and infinitely expensive.

Does not my heat astound you. And my light.

All by myself I am a huge camellia

Glowing and coming and going, flush on flush.

I think I am going up,

I think I may rise-

The beads of hot metal fly, and I, love, I

Am a pure acetylene


Attended by roses

By kisses, by cherubim,

By whatever these pink things mean.

Not you, nor him

Nor him, nor him

(my Selves dissolving, old whore petticoats)-

To Paradise

*the only poem read by another author yesterday at VDAY poetry reading

Author: biochicklet

Scientist raised by intellectuals on poetry, theater, art, history and music in New York City. Escaped to New Mexico to nature and mysticism. Knowing that the absurdities in this life are what we must laugh at.

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