Talking To The Dead...Anne Sexton

i just read your poem Anne
about your desolated masturbations
after you fell through
into that atomized monoxide
dream of pantomimes glittering
vague shapes and black holes
where slumber sinks
and silence roles

we couldn't follow
you into your
receding suicided labyrinth
of timeless echo's
past those dire meadows
of serpentine fires
and shrouds you saw
where life eclipsed
by cosmic law

so i read you
one of my black little pieces
of erotomania
headless Barbie ejaculations
all Marquis De Sade
shadow fantasies
of dead play toe tag
and spilt milk
kisses' true
under Habeas Corpus
sweet dead you

you made me giggle
like jumping jellybeans  
and omg honey
I'm so glad you liked it
and your cute comment
about how my poem
made love to you
like multi chromed
teensy weensy
f*ck candy throat ticklers
at a careless Halloween party
where everything forbidden
in troves
is hidden by the hidden

how you loved
dancing with Night-gaunts
from temples of the astral
past those incessant ruffling whispers
past shadows flesh
somewhere high up
beyond the glimmering headlights
of muttering pastel colored boulevards
that flicker contorted images
of the resurrected living dead
still warm
in your dreadful toxic bed

so tell me dead girl
till the day i die
is it better now
beyond father time
no more words and wounds
no more toothaches
and lunging depressions
pulling you helplessly
into gloomy vortexes
shadowed cups
of looming spacelessness
with no downs or ups

instead you say
you're published
in the Dead Leaf rag
where words like shrouds
blur ballooning solicitude
of indecipherable
mirrored reflections
under tongues of crystal ethers
where life lives backwards
and you just
write beautiful
white
nothings
like flat eyed Phoenician ghosts
beyond the ages
in windless skies
on empty pages