peri melissas o logos

E ALEXANDRA MA AKOUEIS...

when they said he could walk on water
what it sounds like to me
is he could float like a butterfly
and sting like a bee
literal people are scary, man
literal people scare me
out there trying to rid the world
of its poetry
while getting it wrong fundamentally
down at the church of "look,
it sez right here, see!"
(literal, ANI DIFRANCO?)

MERIKES FORES THIMIZEI MOU TON...
Behailed His Gross the Ondt, prostrandvorous upon his dhrone, in his Papylonian babooshkees, smolking a spatial brunt of Hosana cigals, with unshrinkables farfalling from his unthinkables, swarming of himself in his sunnyroom, sated before his com- fortumble phullupsuppy of a plate o'monkynous and a confucion of minthe (for he was a conformed aceticist and aristotaller), as appi as a oneysucker or a baskerboy on the Libido, with Floh biting his leg thigh and Luse lugging his luff leg and Bieni bussing him under his bonnet and Vespatilla blowing cosy fond tutties up the allabroad length of the large of his smalls.
(GUESS WHO!)

JE ALLES FORES TIN...
Who are these people at the bridge to meet me? They are
the
villagers-----
The rector, the midwife, the sexton, the agent for bees.
In my sleeveless summery dress I have no protection,
And they are all gloved and covered, why did nobody tell
me?
They are smiling and taking out veils tacked to ancient
hats.

I am nude as a chicken neck, does nobody love me?
Yes, here is the secretary of bees with her white shop
smock,
Buttoning the cuffs at my wrists and the slit from my neck
to my knees.
Now I am milkweed silk, the bees will not notice.
Thev will not smell my fear, my fear, my fear.

Which is the rector now, is it that man in black?
Which is the midwife, is that her blue coat?
Everybody is nodding a square black head, they are
knights in visors,
Breastplates of cheesecloth knotted under the armpits.
Their smiles and their voices are changing. I am led
through a beanfield.
(the bee meeting, SYLVIA PLATH)