Sylvia Plath – Paralytic Lyrics


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It happens. Will it go on?--
My mind a rock
No fingers to grip, no tongue
My god the iron lung
That loves me, pumps
My two
Dust bags in and out
Will not

Me relapse
While the day outside glides by like ticker tape
The night brings violets
Tapestries of eyes

The soft anonymous
Talkers: 'You all right?'
The starched, inaccessible breast

Dead egg, I lie
On a whole world I cannot touch
At the white, tight

Drum of my sleeping couch
Photographs visit me--
My wife, dead and flat, in 1920 furs
Mouth full of pearls

Two girls
As flat as she, who whisper 'We're your daughters.'
The still waters
Wrap my lips

Eyes, nose and ears
A clear
Cellophane I cannot crack
On my bare back

I smile, a buddha, all
Wants, desire
Falling from me like rings
Hugging their lights

The claw
Of the magnolia
Drunk on its own scents
Asks nothing of life

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