via elisabetholiver.home.blog/ Fever 103° &nbs
via https://elisabetholiver.home.blog/ Fever 103° Pure? What does it mean?The tongues of hellAre dull, dull as the tripleTongues of dull, fat CerebusWho wheezes at the gate. IncapableOf licking cleanThe aguey tendon, the sin, the sin.The tinder cries.The indelible smellOf a snuffed candle!Love, love, the low smokes rollFrom me like Isadora’s scarves, I’m in a frightOne scarf will catch and anchor in the wheel.Such yellow sullen smokesMake their own element. They will not rise,But trundle round the globeChoking the aged and the meek,The weakHothouse baby in its crib,The ghastly orchidHanging its hanging garden in the air,Devilish leopard!Radiation turned it whiteAnd killed it in an hour.Greasing the bodies of adulterersLike Hiroshima ash and eating in.The sin. The sin.Darling, all nightI have been flickering, off, on, off, on.The sheets grow heavy as a lecher’s kiss.Three days. Three nights.Lemon water, chickenWater, water make me retch.I am too pure for you or anyone.Your bodyHurts me as the world hurts God. I am a lantern ——My head a moonOf Japanese paper, my gold beaten skinInfinitely delicate and infinitely expensive.Does not my heat astound you. And my light.All by myself I am a huge camelliaGlowing 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, IAm a pure acetyleneVirginAttended by roses,By kisses, by cherubim,By whatever these pink things mean.Not you, nor himNot him, nor him(My selves dissolving, old whore petticoats) ——To Paradise.–Sylvia Plath, written 20 October 1962, in: Ariel, 1965 -- source link
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