for whose sake the sun does shine

I got the night on my side.

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The woman is perfected.
Her dead

Body wears the smile of accomplishment,
The Illusion of a Greek necessity

Flows in the scrolls of her toga,
Her bare

Feet seem to be saying:
We have come so far, it is over.

Each dead child coiled, a white serpent,
One at each little

Pitcher of milk, now empty.
She has folded

Them back into her body as petals
Of a rose close when the garden

Stiffens and odours bleed
From the sweet, deep throats of the night flower.

The moon has nothing to be sad about,
Staring from her hood of bone.

She is used to this sort of thing.

Her blacks crackle and drag.

Sylvia Plath, Edge

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hooray say the roses, today is blamesday
and we are red as blood.

hooray say the roses, today is Wednesday
and we bloom where soldiers fell,
and lovers too,
and the snake ate the word.

hooray say the roses, darkness comes
all at once, like lights gone out,
the sun leaves dark continents
and rows of stone.

hooray say the roses, cannons and spires,
birds, bees, bombers, today is Friday
the hand holding medal out the window,
a moth going by, half a mile an hour,
hooray hooray
hooray say the roses
we wave empires on our stems,
the sun moves the mouth:
hooray hooray hooray
and that is why you like us.

Charles Bukowski, hooray say the roses

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