November and the sun grows sparse in the sky.
Erica JongFor what angry God arching backward over the world. his anus spitting fire, the fetid breath of his mouth propelling blood-colored clouds, his navel full of burnt pitch and singed feathers, have we given our eyes, our teeth, our eyeglasses, bales of our our hair, and the magic of our worthless gold?
Erica JongGod is not dead but missing in action, and we are destined to wander again for more millennia than there are undiscovered stars.
Erica JongI love to go to sleep, when bed takes me like a lover
Erica JongThe earth is God's book but in our blindness, we have obliterated letters so we may say God has abandoned us. It is we who are illiterate.
Erica JongIs life much too long for an immortal?
Erica JongBut I am wise if not yet quite old, wanting the poem more than the lover, wanting words more than the sticky dew men secrete in their private places.
Erica JongYou want to be a poet and not die.
Erica JongThese bits speak history's tattered tale. How we cling to scraps, shards, sea glass- because we cannot stay.
Erica JongIr completamente sobria a una fiesta es algo nuevo para mí; nuevo y atemorizador. Veo demasiado, siento demasiado, me doy demasiada cuenta de las mentiras.
Erica JongTags: life
« first previous
Page 8 of 9.
next last »
Data privacy
Imprint
Contact
Diese Website verwendet Cookies, um Ihnen die bestmögliche Funktionalität bieten zu können.