Flèche

We've been up and down these hills And found ourselves in different pills And I met Satan in a cheap motel— she talked at length about Orson Welles You were washed up on the shore Lamb's blood ran down your door Soft, gentle stranger— remember me when you're tired and old Soft, gentle stranger— Luella, babe, won't you marry me now? You were washed up on the shore Lamb's blood ran down your door Not every filth is art, not every stranger's fall; no row is Madonna, no stranger is God Not every church is strong, not every city's wrong; no struggle is in vain, no system is safe And no law in this word is sacred or sane Not every man would rather be dead than in chains Not every war's unjust, not every faith is love— no orgasm is ever enough Soft, gentle stranger— Luella, babe, won't you marry me now? Soft, gentle stranger— Luella, babe, won't you marry me now? Not every filth is art, not every stranger's fall; not every generation is doomed to despair Not every hate is wrong, not every lust is sin; not every revolution begins from within You were washed up on the shore Lamb's blood ran down your door Soft, gentle stranger— Luella, babe, won't you marry me now? Not every filth is art, not every stranger's fall; not every generation is doomed to despair Not every filth is art, not every stranger's fall— no orgasm is ever enough Soft, gentle stranger— Luella, babe, won't you marry me now? Soft, gentle stranger— Luella, babe, won't you marry me now? Soft, gentle stranger— Luella, babe, won't you marry me now! Soft, gentle stranger. [ Satan, Luella & I, Emma Roha ]

امیدوارم کارت‌های تاروت بهم دروغ نگن.

‌Bien! Savez, je jure que j'aurais préféré coucher avec cet homme aux cheveux longs.

- Mais mon amour pour les femmes et le champagne pourrait être perçu ainsi. Non ?

Je ne suis pas une putain d'artiste.

با این اوت‌فیت دارم می‌رم بروکلی و فلفل بخرم.

‌ ‌ ‌ ‌How beautiful is the flesh of women_ Their throats, their breasts! My wonder is a flame which burns, A flame which rests; It is a flame which no wind turns, And a flame which quests. I know a woman who has red lips, Like coals which are fanned. Her throat is tied narcissus, it dips From her white-rose chin, Her throat curves like a cloud to the land Where her breasts begin_ I close my eyes when I put my hand On her breast's white skin. The flesh of woman is like the sky When bare is the moon: Rhythm of backs, hollow of necks, And sea-shell loins. I know a woman whose splendors vex Where the flesh joins_ A slope of light and a circumflex Of clefts and coigns. She thrills like the air when silence wrecks An ended tune. [ Song of Women, Edgar Lee Masters ]

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 black art, Anne Sexton (1962)

- نشان مرا در کبودی علفزار خواهی یافت. بدانگونه که من از غبارِ خاکستری بیابانی در شب، تو را یافتم.

Same skirt,