Rhiannon Dance: Ibiza

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In a basin of flesh,
surrounded by hills,
the sea glistens blue,
sun warms our chills.

On a concrete port,
we plan our escape,
fight off the locusts
or bear the rape.

Through the mesh of a sunhat,
life is just squares,
scenes stitched together,
threads and hairs.

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Sylvia Plath: Cut

One of my all time favourites:

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For Susan O’Neill Roe

What a thrill —
My thumb instead of an onion.
The top quite gone
Except for a sort of a hinge

Of skin,
A flap like a hat,
Dead white.
Then that red plush.

Little pilgrim,
The Indian’s axed your scalp.
Your turkey wattle
Carpet rolls

Straight from the heart.
I step on it,
Clutching my bottle
Of pink fizz.

A celebration, this is.
Out of a gap
A million soldiers run,
Redcoats, every one.

Whose side are they on?
O my
Homunculus, I am ill.
I have taken a pill to kill

The thin
Papery feeling.
Saboteur,
Kamikaze man —

The stain on your
Gauze Ku Klux Klan
Babushka
Darkens and tarnishes and when

The balled
Pulp of your heart
Confronts its small
Mill of silence

How you jump —
Trepanned veteran,
Dirty girl,
Thumb stump.