If you pluck out my heart To find what makes it move, Youโll halt the clock That syncopates our love.
I think I may well be a Jew.
Dying Is an art, like everything else. I do it exceptionally well.
Ash, ash โ- You poke and stir. Flesh, bone, there is nothing thereโโ A cake of soap, A wedding ring, A gold filling. Herr God, Herr Lucifer Beware Beware. Out of the ash I rise with my red hair And I eat men like air.
It is awful to want to go away and to want to go nowhere.
How can I tell Bob that my happiness streams from having wrenched a piece out of my life, a piece of hurt and beauty, and transformed it to typewritten words on paper? How can he know I am justifying my life, my keen emotions, my feeling, by turning it into print?