Do not judge a woman on her knees, you never know how tall she is when she stands.
~ Mie Hansson
Everything is possible in America, except the production of intelligence.
It’s just another stop on the curvy roadthe final encounterfor the man who has liveddeath is the answer.
I am the interpretation of the prophetI am the artist in the coffinI am the brave flag stained with bloodI am the wounds overcomeI am the dream refusing to sleepI am the bare-breasted voice of libertyI am the comic the insult and the laughI am the right the middle and the leftI am the poached eggs in the skyI am the Parisian streets at nightI am the dance that swings till dawnI am the grass on the greener lawnI am the respectful neighbour and the graceful manI am the encouraging smile and the helping handI am the straight back and the lifted chinI am the tender heart and the will to winI am the rainbow in rainI am the human who won’t die in vainI am Athena of Greek mythologyI am the religion that praises equalityI am the woman of stealth and affectionI am the man of value and compassionI am the wild horse ploughing throughI am the shoulder to lean ontoI am the Muslim the Jew and the ChristianI am the Dane the French and the PalestinianI am the straight the square and the roundI am the white the black and the brownI am the free speech and the free pressI am the freedom to expressI will die for my right to be all the above here mentionedAnd should threat encounter I’ll pull my pencil
Do not judge a woman on her knees_you never know how tall she is when she stands!
I ain’t scared to lend a handI ain’t scared to clench it either
Do not judge a woman on her knees: you never know how tall she is when she stands.
All mothers breed dead children.They shall, perhaps, live later.When no longer dead, they are bornNot—by coincidence, by choice.
I wore you on me at all timesLike I now carry my pen.Unlike your own opinion myBelongings must have a function.You bled through the ink of my lines andTo be my subject nursed your thirst.Was it my fault, or your own, that you forgot—I do not deal in tender verse.
Women in love are patheticand I cannot be bothered, for now,I am back to metaphysicsand my armpits gather hair.
I shall have my lasso, I shall lead the course;I recognize it’s time to mount a different horse.
I have not encouraged talk about man’s holy privacy, although I do respect and defend man’s right to have it.
Now, as we close one chapter, the pen is gradually inking up, preparing itself to write the next.
Had I only known my lettersWould be of such importanceI’d empty myself on paperEvery single morning’And it was for such reason,as she read his little stanza,that she decided to stamponefinalletter:‘Every single morningI’d empty myself on paperYou were my greater importanceThat’s why I wrote you letters.
We quenched the bulging flame, amongst the ashes embers of fire remain
The match I struck shall not run deadYou’re my first inhale, my last cigarette.
Lonely you linger in a league above poetry.
No man has the courage to approach her or initiate questions she herself rise, for all men fear a fascist and she can very well be a fascist’s wife.
What differentiated us was our perception of our mutual reality, which made no difference.
All mothers breed dead children.
