I am currently reading Sylvia Plath's book of poems Ariel. It is so fucking great. It's chilling and terrifying and yet draws this beautiful picture of a yearning for love. These poems are like gorgeous, alabaster bowls; white and empty.
This is from a poem of hers that I read today at lunch called Totem:
White towers of Smithfield ahead,
Fat haunches and blood on their minds.
There is no mercy in the glitter of cleavers,
The butcher's guillotine that whispers, "How's this, how's this?"
In the bowl the hare is aborted,
Its baby head out of the way, embalmed in spice,
Flayed of fur and humanity.
Let us eat it like Plato's afterbirth,
Let us eat it like Christ.
These are the people that were important—