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Anne Sexton - The Fury Of Cocks

There they are 
drooping over the breakfast plates, 
folding in their sad wing, 
animal sad, 
and only the night before 
there they were 
playing the banjo. 
Once more the day's light comes 
with its immense sun, 
its mother trucks, 
its engines of amputation. 
Whereas last night 
the cock knew its way home, 
as stiff as a hammer, 
battering in with all 
its awful power. 
That theater. 
Today it is tender, 
a small bird, 
as soft as a baby's hand. 
She is the house. 
He is the steeple. 
When they fuck they are God. 
When they break away they are God. 
When they snore they are God. 
In the morning thet butter the toast. 
They don't say much. 
They are still God. 
All the cocks of the world are God, 
blooming, blooming, blooming 
into the sweet blood of woman.

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Added: Feb 27 2003 | Viewed: 12347 times | Comments and analysis of The Fury Of Cocks by Anne Sexton Comments (37)

The Fury Of Cocks - Comments and Information

Poet: Anne Sexton
Poem: The Fury Of Cocks
Volume: The Death Notebooks
Year: Published/Written in 1974

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