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Lady Lazarus I have through with(p) it again.
One year in every ten
I manage it-----
A sort of walking miracle, my skin
fresh as a Nazi lampshade,
My right foot
A paperweight,
My featureless, fine
Jew linen.
Peel off the napkin
O my enemy.
Do I terrify?-------
The nose, the eye pits, the overflowing set of odontiasis?
The sour breath
Will vanish in a day.
Soon, soon the flesh
The grave cave ate forget be
At home on me
And I a smiling woman.
I am only thirty.
And worry the khat I have nine times to die.
This is Number Three.
What a trash
To annihilate each decade.
What a million filaments.
The Peanut-crunching concourse
Shoves in to see
Them unwrap me hand and foot ------
The sorry strip tease.
Gentleman , ladies
These are my hands
My knees.
I may be skin and bone,
Nevertheless, I am the resembling, identical woman.
The maiden time it happened I was ten.
It was an accident.
The second time I meant
To exsert it out and not come back at all.
I rocked shut
As a seashell.
They had to call and call
And dissipate the worms off me like sticky pearls.
Dying
Is an art, like everything else.
I do it exceptionally well.
I do it so it feels like hell.
I do it so it feels real.
I guess you could regulate Ive a call.
Its easy enough to do it in a cell.
Its easy enough to do it and stay put.
Its the theatrical
comeback in broad day
To the same place, the same face, the same brute
Amused shout:
A miracle!
That knocks me out.
There is a the boot
For the eyeing my scars, at that place is a charge
For the hearing of my heart---
It really goes.
And there is a charge, a very large charge
For a word or a touch
Or a bit of blood
Or a piece of my sensory hair on my clothes.
So, so, Herr Doktor.
So, Herr Enemy.
I am your opus,
I am your valuable,
The axenic gold baby
That melts to a shriek.
I turn and burn.
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