Fragmented Fuchsia Memoirs

Fragmented Fuchsia Memoirs

“Mr. Doppelganger.
My brother. My spouse.
My enemy. My lover.”
—Anne Sexton, "The Other"

Under the towels—in the bathroom
In the mirror—when I’m nude
He’s waiting for me—my Double
I used to think—he was my brother
Maybe my spouse—or lover
But lately—he’s got subversive
I don’t even know—anymore
Whether—he’s gone transgressive
Bitchy—you know, transvestite?

I don’t feel like—spilling the beans
I’ve never been—that confessional
But lately he—hangs up the phone
I try to soothe—and calm him
But he drinks—that Lysol anyway
I kiss him—he flushes the toilet
He’s my other—my better half
He looks good—in a cocktail dress
He loves to tango—just ask Marco

I used to put—the make on him
Hello—how about a little fellatio?
But now he just—simply hates me
His hatred makes him—clairvoyant
He haunts me—like Peter Quint
Talk about—The Turn of the Screw
Poor little innocent me—naïve Miles
My family tree—tainted with decadence
How I succumb—to my own bad seed

Consider a Labyrinthine Love Affair

“See him come—
plunging down while
his sensible daddy
goes straight to town”
—Anne Sexton,
"To a Friend Whose Work
Has Come to Triumph"

Consider Icarus—pimply pasty-faced
A fairy-boy—with sticky-icky wings
Think of that first—flawless moment
When he was—exquisitely ravaged
By Ted Hughes—in the Labyrinth
Shocking—Mytholmroyd minotaur
How ecstatic he felt—wondrously high
Young Icarus—sailing over plushy
Mediterranean waves—into the sun
Falling downward—plunging earthward
Melting in the gaze—of that hot eye
That makes Big Daddy—so Wunderbar!!!

Vincent Van Gogh

“like a drowned
woman into the
hot sky”
—Anne Sexton,
"The Starry Night"

The town—doesn’t exist
Only the night—boiling with stars
Oh starry night—orange moon
Swirling with—serpent whirlpools
Oh starry night—you’re alive
Big bright hot—summer sky
Drown me now—I want to die
Take me upward—into the sea
The vast ocean—that will be me
This is how—I want to go
Oh starry night—swallow my
Painterly life—my dwarf heart

Letter to Anne Sexton

“the kind that act—
upon us like a misfortune”
—Franz Kafka
"Letter to Oskar Pollak"

These poems—on the way
On the working—toward way
Auditing—Robert Lowell at
Boston University—then
The lounge bar—at the Ritz
Deep dark—red carpeting

Red leather chairs—waiters
White coated—and hushed
Thinking we—were strange
Hollywood types—celebrities
Our books—fiery conversations
Clutter of poems—our oddness

Sylvia and me—at The Ritz
Discussing The Bell Jar—and
Techniques we—left behind
Never asking—why build it
But rather—which tools to use
Lots of martinis—gossipy

Sylvia—Oh funny duchess!
Oh blonde thing—from Wellesley
How the moon—went bad
And the gamekeeper—mad
Lady Chatterley—at wit’s end
What shall we do—dear Ariel?

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