Murder She Wrote

Murder She Wrote

“Poetry of this order
is a murderous art.
Murderous, that is,
rather than suicidal”

—John Romano
"Sylvia Plath Reconsidered," 

I think that as far as language goes—
That Olwyn and Dido Merwin were right

I’m just a spoiled American bitch queen—
Butscher even calls me a Bitch Goddess

I can’t help it actually that I’m bitchy—
Like that dishy bitchy poem “Face Lift”

Dido was so shocked and chagrined—
How dare I reveal her deepest dark secrets

Her private little cosmetic surgery tidbits—
So her ugly wrinkled old face could be new

So she could pretend to be young again—
Even tho her pussy really needed the lift

The dynamics were sharp and quick—
The hard exactness of a surgeon’s knife

But isn’t that, my dear, the craft of poetry—
The jaunty slang, the cinematic cutting?

Even “Tulips” with its quiet gentle lines—
Sustains a tension of menace and energy

Can I help it if my verse sounds stark—
And primitive like a naked African folktale?

Engorged with sudden sexy primitivism—
Exciting to the snaky Medusa imagination?

Are face lifts gothic or just merely grotesque—
Am I to blame for Dido’s tacky vanities?

Do I do night dances at racy nightclubs—
Dido writhing naked under the moon?

Surely I’m just as shy as Emily Dickinson—
As closeted as moody Munich Mannequins

Can I help it if Dido Merwin was aghast—
I said nothing about the bellhop or cute waiter

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