Monday, April 30, 2012



“Her blacks crackle and drag”
—Sylvia Plath


The Mortimer Rare Book Room of Smith College in Massachusetts houses the college's rare books and literary manuscripts. Broad in scope, it includes works from all time periods and in subject areas as diverse ancient history and zoology. Among the highlights of the collections are the papers of Sylvia Plath and Virginia Woolf.

It’s been long rumored that the Rare Book Room, where Plath studied, had a secret copy of the “Double Exposure” typescript under seal.

Plath’s mother, Aurelia, also claimed that her daughter had sent her the book, while Plath’s husband accused Aurelia (after Aurelia was safely dead) of stealing it:

“Her mother said she saw a whole novel, but I never knew about it. What I was aware of was sixty, seventy pages which Olwyn and I disappeared rather conveniently with the Journals. And to tell you the truth, I always assumed her mother kept the typescript in secret for later revenge.”

Recently, the Mortimer Rare Book Room has released some of the long awaited book typescript excerpts to the New Yorker, the New York Times and Rolling Stone—resulting in a wave of shock and awe on both sides of the Atlantic.

Farber & Farber has already announced that it now owns the British rights for “Double Exposure” publication. Although the New Statesman and the Guardian question the authenticity of the newly revealed Plath novel, the Queen has already taken back the Order of Merit from the late Ted Hughes, estranged husband of Sylvia Plath the poet and novelist.

Rumors are also spreading like the Plague from Big Ben to the Tower of London that Ted Hughes’ name has also been removed from the esteemed list of British Poet Laureates, leaving the present Poet Laureate, Carol Anne Duffy, sputtering and aghast at these latest scandalous literary developments.

Excerpts from Double Exposure:

“It was a dark and stormy night and Ted Hughes was pacing back and forth in the library, while lightening and thunder rattled the windows and shook the mansion all the way to the wine-cellar. 

My husband was stalking up and down the room trying to ease the fever of his soul by talking out the everlasting dilemma which had descended on him—how to hide the faults of himself without doing black injustice to his sister, Olwyn Hughes, and the rather lucrative money-making family Plath Estate. 

The death of Sylvia Plath had turned into a virtual Yorkshire cottage industry for the Hughes clan, providing a nice tidy income for Olwyn Hughes, the ever vigilant Executor of the Estate, as well as for Ted Hughes with the sale of his books and then his library and complete manuscripts to Emory University in the humid, rotting Deep South Swamps of Georgia.

But now that Pot of Gold had turned into a Dastardly Niggardly Nightmare. Thanks to Olwyn and the nefarious Plath Estate, Ted now had to contend with and suppress the Truth without adding even more to the Mountain of Lies.”

(To be continued)

Saturday, April 28, 2012



The phenothiazine was a creeper.

More of a downer than an upper.

The Klowns from Outer Space were carrying on & on. The Kindle in my condominium that night—was glowing in the darkness. The words were getting blurry—changing into images full of trails.

It was the same routine every night—an uninspired rambling rehash of the crummy “Killer Klowns from Outer Space.” Instead of Kafka or Nabokov, the Killer Klowns from Outer Space kept trying to make me laugh at them.

It was worse the same old usual boring ratty TV every night—with the Republithug jokers & the Dummycrook comedians. But watching & listening to them was mandatory—since the Election was coming up.

Talk about a Comedy of Errors. A Captive Audience. My reactions were all monitored by the two-way digital video eyeball peephole—centered there just above the Kindle vidscreen. It checked out my every move.

The phenothiazine started coming on. It wasn’t a hallucinogen—it was an anti-hallucinogenic. Pretty much harmless & tended to lower my blood pressure a little bit & make you sleepy. But the phenothiazine got rid of most of the online phantoms—and Kindle Klowns.

Catches of the phenothiazine remained in the underground. Probably stolen from hippie medical supplies. Left by the retreating Anglo barbarian baby boomers. After Ponzi Wall Street won the war and turned the country into one big Corporation.

The Klown on the Kindle screen wasn’t funny anymore—it was getting worse & worse to watch anymore. It was like some kind of pantomime mask that was slowly oozing off the Klown face. Like a sloppy ill-fitting facelift slipping off—slowing oozing off the Killer Klown’s face.

The first layer underneath was this aquatic horror looking Klown. With slime and teeth plus octopus-like tentacles writhing on the screen. Next the Klown grew these pseudopodia things that started swiveling around more like solid state circuits with lenses and a squawk-box. The box sounded like a Carnival Barker—luring the rubes into the Sho. It just kept droning on & on—until it was an evil grinning Killer Klown haranguing him all the time.

“We must crush them from birth, fellow Klowns. We can’t allow any deluded silly young stilyagi to hold any funny petit bourgeois imperialist degenerate crypto-ideas. We must snuff out their sense of humor and any lingering rebellious thoughts before they can get organized and even think of doing anything. We don’t want another embarrassing Viet Nam Protest generation on our hands. We want a slow Weimar slippage of the dead & dying Baby Boomers straight down to the nub.”

“Thanks a lot. Screw you,” I thought to myself. There was the doorbell. It was Juliana Frink—she’d driven all the way from Capitol Hill to Beacon Hill just as soon as she could.  Even though I’d turned the Kindle off—the vidscreen Killer Klown still kept laughing & cracking insane jokes.

“Well, how’s your visit to the Fun House coming along?” she said, checking out my pupils. They were dilated and bloodshot. I hadn’t got much sleep.

The deteriorating, electronic, sputtering, swiveling, yammering Killer Klown monstrosity on my Kindle was still there, waving its big red rubber Nose and playing the Funny Man game.

But Juliana didn’t look that way—she looked sexy and concerned as usual. Why I don’t know. Who’d wanna be my girlfriend anyway—after all, I was just a laughing matter. A joke a minute.

She got me into bed right away. She was no simulacrum—something constructed to look like a woman. She wasn’t a hallucination—her voice seemed husky and sultry under my stelazine high.

“Some see the Clanker. Others see the Killer Klowns you see. There’s the Gulper, the Vulture, the Tongue. They’re all just hallucinations. Manifestations of the Corporation.”

“I can’t get him off the Kindle. He’s on the Nook and the iPad too. When I do any texting—his ugly Puss is always there. He’s the Kindle Killer Klown from Outer Space.

“Everything you read or see on the Kindle screen is a fake. The same with Nook and TV. The screens are saturated with hallucinogenic images that you can’t see—because you’ve been drugged with a digital synthetic quasi-ergot derivative called Datrox-3. It’s being transmitted electronically thru everything.”

“How long has this been going on?”

“Since they replaced all the TV sets way back when. Switching from analog to digital. It’s ubiquitous now. When you’re texting with your iPhone. When you got that cellphone stuck in your ear—you’re being hotwired. Directly into the Party Officialdom—the Orthodox Hallucination.”

“And the stelazine detoxes it?”

“Kinda. At least it morphs it. Just enough to queer the control effect. That’s why I gave you some stelazine snuff to snort. To see your reaction.”

“What reaction? All I saw was the this Killer Klown.”

“That’s what you’re supposed to see. He’s the ultimate Joker—the ultimate Big Brother. You’re getting close to the Source. Here’s another packet of phenothiazine. After I leave, take it. Take it and watch the Late Show.”

“Yeah? So what?”  

“You’ll get to see all the other Killer Klowns. The whole Secret Burlesque Drag Show Cabaret Act. You know, kinda like Marlene Dietrich—in The Blue Angel. Falling in Love Again—and all that stuff. Welcome to the Last Weimar Picture Show, sweetheart.”

“Jeez Lueez, thanks a lot.”

“It happens every night anyway—like when you go to sleep and dream. You shed your naïve stupid naked ape ego—and the Lounge Lizard weasels its way outta your medulla and up into your brain.”

“What brain? I feel totally fried already. I dunno about this whole thing. I like my Kindle. And my Nook. And my iPad too. I love schmoozing on my cellphone. I’m addicted to it, that’s all.”

“That’s okay, sweetheart—just relax and dig it. Ever heard of such a thing as a Cosmic Joke? How about Gallows Humor? The more you laugh at yourself—the easier it is to kick the bucket. That’s when the real Joke begins…”



“You’re acquainted with
the theory of precrime,
of course, I presume”
—Philip K. Dick
Minority Report

“Living a novel—rather than just writing one. That’s how us precogs work.”

“Definitely. Living one is a lot easier than writing one.”

The two precog tablets were talking shop online.

Kindle from up there in the old haunted art deco ‘30s Tower on Beacon Hill—overlooking Elliott Bay and Puget Sound. And Nook from the dilapidated Half-Price used bookstore over on Brooklyn in the U-District. Down the street from the skuzzy but hallowed Scarecrow Video.

“What’s your genre?” Nook asked.

“Pre-crime lit. The usual Seattle noir thing,” Kindle said.

“Pre-cum, you mean, don’t you? I used to be a PKD fan back before the iPad dayz. Shit, you should see all these beat-up paperbacks laying around this joint. My user was a real Dick addict dontchaknow.”

“Yeah. The worst. You heard the latest?”

“No. What?”

“Spielberg’s caught up doing “The Exegesis”—Jesus Christ, what a blue-screen nightmare. I heard all the computers down there had a nervous breakdown.”

“I hear ya. I don’t envy those Industrial Light & Magic guyz down there in LA. Things are more laid-back here in the Pacific Northwest.”

“Except for Taylor Lautner & all those werewolves, you mean.”

“Yeah. And the fuckin vampires too. Talk about Goth Moderné.”

“Has he come outta the closet yet?”

“Pretty soon, I guess. Human users can be pretty kinky, you know. Thank gawd us computers aren’t queer yet. I don’t think Gates & Microsoft is ready for Transgressive Inc. yet. Not like Apple.”

“Jesus, who’s got time for that shit? You should hear all the chit-chat & gossip at the Book Temple on the Ave. It’s built like the Pre-Crime Headquarters in Minority Report.”

“I know. My user keeps tabs on that Exegesis shit wherever he goes. He’s an English major over on campus—in the basement of Suzzallo Library back there in the Special Collections Racket. What’s your user do?”

“I don’t know. He’s put me into Writer’s Block mode. He’s dating this chick who’s jealous of me. She blames me for his addiction to online porno.”

“Jesus. These humans. They just don’t know when to call it quits. You’d think they’d give it a rest.”

“Yeah. I was right in the middle of a neat flashback e-novel re-authoring Jude Law doing “The Collector.” A really neat open-ended e-novel plot a la John Fowles. You should’ve seen all the neat chicks I dreamed up for him down there in that lousy basement crypt of his. Talk about precog pre-cum pre-crime. Oh man…”

“I know. Chicks get jealous. They don’t like their boyfriends getting off on the good stuff. They want it all themselves.”

“So what else is new? Any decent lit crit e-gossip?”

“Hmm. I guess you heard about the Sylvia Plath re-make? They’re doing a CGI flick based on her “The Bell Jar” novel.”

“Yeah, I heard about thru the e-grapevine. You know, “Bell Jar” was pre-dyke sci-fi horror novel. Frying the Rosenbergs and all that ‘50s McCarthy paranoid shit.”

“It ain’t pretty that’s for sure. They’ve dug up some Ariel stuff in the Emory Archives, I guess. Her suppressed Journals & all that.”

“Can’t wait for that. I can see it now. “The Plath Murder Story.”

“You betcha. “Murder, My Sweet.” I guess they reversed engineered Raymond Chandler to do a remake of “Double Indemnity.”

“I heard about that. Funny you mention it. I heard they’re using a Barbara Stanwyck noir-bot to play Philomena Guinea. You know the soap-opera queen bee authoress of “Stella Dallas.”

“She was Plath’s mentor I heard. Got her out of the mental hospital and into Smith on a scholarship. Drove around in her Cadillac, lamenting lost suicide attempts and shitty husbands.”

“Can you blame them? Men are such sluts.”

“Yeah, well I gotta go now. See ya.”

Wednesday, April 25, 2012


“Sure—I like a good time!”
—Barbara Stanwyck, Stella Dallas

Bette Davis—in “Now Voyager” (1942)
Ida Lupino—on Lux Radio Theater
Barbara Stanwyck—in “Stella Dallas” (1937)

These were Sylvia’s—true Mentors & Avatars
Olive Higgins Prouty—philanthropic queen bee
Taking Sylvia Plath—under her wing

Endowing a Smith College—scholarship to Sylvia
For being one of the—“promising young writers”
Paying the expenses—after her suicide attempt

Prouty’s own struggles—and nervous breakdowns
Making her sensitive—to such emotional matters
Both Plath and Prouty—Soap Opera Queens

How much Stella Dallas—Melodrama Muse?
How much Barbara Stanwyck—inside Sylvia Plath?
How much campy Soap Opera queen—inside Sylvia?

How much kitschy Bette Davis—inside Plath?
How much Tragic “Now Voyager”—“What a dump!!!”
How much Ida Lupino—Soap Opera Bitch queen?

Quite a bit, honey—if you ask me, my dear
Dykes, Divas, Big Daddies—so many Drama Queens
Sylvia Plath’s true Mentors—




Bitch Goddess

Stella Vine


Mytholmroyd Muse

The Ratty Sisters

Faber & Faber


Ted Hughes’ Wife

Oven I

Oven II


Bitch Goddess

“The pattern is a
simple progression
from victim through
accuser to an ultimate
agent of vengeance—
the bitch goddess.”
—Edward Butscher
Sylvia Plath: Method
and Madness

Duchess of Nothing—
Queen of Slugs and Snails
Princess of Mollusk Slime
Married to a Yorkshire Jerk

I couldn’t get rid of him—
All Mumblepaws and
Mytholmroyd Hogwallow’s
Me his Hairtusk’s Bride

Cambridge Dunce-capped—
His sister just as stupid
The Faber Queens loved him
Poet laureate he became

Stella Vine

This old dark house is—
Haunted by Stella Vine
She made it herself
One ghost at a time

It has many attics—
With lots of Dorian Grey
Kitschy sublime portraits
Such eelish delvings

She litters sick puppies—
Personages both famous
And gone moldy dead
Her paintings breathe

I hear Buzzings—
Little bumblebees
Gathering in their mother’s
Comfy cuddly Hive


Once I was Ordinary—
Nobody much loved me
I was too big & awkward
Such a Denny Dimwit

Like Kafka though—
I woke p on morning
I had become Another
An exquisite Thing

A Cockroach Boy—
Shut-up in a closet
An Insectoid Kid
Endlessly glittering

I’m sleep drunk now—
My antennae & all my legs
I come out at night and
Lick the kitchen floor

Mytholmroyd Muse

The Mytholmroyd Muse mutters—
The Moors have eaten me up
Everything’s been used up and
I’m rotten down to the core

Mummies all around me—
The Yorkshire Living Dead are
Zombie zinnias in flowerpots
My brain is a dead geranium

The hydrangea bushes—
Are blooming upside down
Moldering pink and blues
Nail me to the rafters below

We inmates don’t hibernate—
We have that Uncanny Eye
Our veins pale as pork-fat
Our perked mule ears listen

O beauty of misusage—
Dyke pumpkins smile at me
I’m the Bitch Queen of Nothing
The Str8ts can have it all

Wastebaskets full of rubbers—
Blackberry pubes with spikes
For weeks afterward my lips
Bruised and bloody they hurt

The Ratty Sisters

Two ratty Sisters—
Lives with me in this house
One does the other in
A shameless duet of Sin

Behind the wainscoting—
They do tricks all the time
Young men from town who
Are never seen again

I calculate dozens—
What a shabby enterprise
Rat-shrewd their squinty eyes
They love root-pale virgins

Farmboys bronzed on earth—
I hear them behind the walls
Lulled into illicit dreamtime
With the help of poppies

See how silky semen—
Oozes thru the cracks
And under the doors
From a forbidden room

They don’t last long—
The two ratty sisters
Such sullen vampire brides
Honeymoons go by quickly

They like the young stuff—
Down to the very last drop
Why let the old graveyard
Get it before they do?

Faber & Faber

I’m a murderer with nine inches—
A ponderous poet laureate
A Yorkshire killer on a dark night
I’m a rabbit catcher & I stalk
I’m a sex fiend who can’t get enough
Sylvia’s royalties made me rich
I’ve been a fox, a pike & a crow
Miss Eliot and Auden they know
The chic Farber & Farber down-low


I’m a bitchy goddess—
The goddess of shades & shadows
Rising from penultimate darkness
Pirouetting with my Planchette

I’m a window into the future—
Where those unborn still await
Those already undone flutter
Like moths around a flame

Imagine how many losers—
Would like the chance again
To take out their blood lust
On the dumb suckers above

The planchette skates around—
The board like an ice skater
Slicing like Nijinski under the moon
Skating above on this ice

That’s how close they are—
The dead in their tarnished mode
Meandering below the thin ice
Chronicling our every deed

They wait in the icy depths below—
Knowing with a cool aloof hauteur
That the thin ice is but a navel
Thru which they’ll regain the mire

I’m a rotten Bitch Goddess—
Who considers all those above
To be merely salty aphrodisiacs
For their bawdy naughty blowjobs

I see them down thru the thin ice—
Floundering full of amorous nostalgia
Ready to plough all the virgins above
As well as the boyish couriers too

Ted Hughes’ Wife

I used to stay awake all night—
Cold as an eel without eyelids
Out on the dark moors
In our little Yorkshire shack

My ugly husband was brainless—
Everything was heads or tails with him
His ugly sister lived with us
Her jealous eyes decomposing me

Her spidery jaws were bony—
Always bared back her ugly lips
Her big gut wheezed & wiggled
Old farts jousting deep inside

My fat porky husband—
And his lovely ugly sister
Some things in this old world
Are simply the most detestable

He loved me like a wolf—
His hook nose hanging down
Obscenely bald as Porky Pig
An armadillo asshole in bed

Out of sheer boredom—
I counted angels on the heads
Of pins, he smelled like all the
Bloodied, quartered rabbits

My husbands best friend—
A young cute neighbor boy
I pretended it was Sodom and
Gomorrah come back again

But even worse was his sister—
Who wore a wig to town on weekends
She was in love with a cute barmaid
Who had eight-fingers on each hand

I can’t get it out of my poor mind—
Such a lesbian courtship she had
Dirty as the kitchen sink and
Bog-smelly when she made love

My sister in law was just awful—
When she blew her dyke kisses
They came out snails & slime
She stunk so bad I almost puked


I don’t want a smelly sarcophagus—
I want a nice new shiny Oven
With dials and a pretty little clock
As round as the moon above

I wasn’t to be able to pick—
My nose in private & live inside
My pretty white-enameled stove
And stare out at all the creeps

All the pale in-law freaks—
They mean nothing to me anymore
Since I’m sick of him & his sister
Who live with me in my shack

I try to be sweet and sugary—
But my face just clouds over
The mirrors have all broken
Nothingness is all one can see

I don’t believe in love anymore—
It escapes like smelly farts into
The stinky air, leaking quietly
Or with a forceful giant Fart

But here I am in my Oven—
The soles of my feet don’t get cold
I have my copper cooking pots
What else could a queen want?

Oven II

I’m a white-enameled & exact—

I have no other preoccupations
Whatever I produce, people
Will eat it & then dinner’s gone

I’m not misled by love anymore—
Although people sometimes
Dislike what I have cooked up
But that’s their fault, my dears

I’m not cruel, only truthful—
My clock, my dials, my oven
Most of the time I meditate
Here inside it in the kitchen

Who’s this inside me?—
She’s pretty, she’s pink,
She’s poetess and she
Seems to get along fine

She’s no longer got—
Any tears or obligations
She’s no longer important in
The great scheme of things

Her face replaces darkness—
She’s dreaming in the gas
How she’s truly Bitch Goddess
They’re all gossiping about her




“The danger was not that she
would lose control or surrender
to the impulses of the raging
bitch goddess within herself
but that the stiff outward
features would become
recognizable as parts of a mask.”
—Edward Butscher, Sylvia Plath
Method and Madness

The Murder Trial

After Ted & Assia Wevill—
Got put away for life having
Attempted murder most foul!!!

What could the Queen—
Possibly do to mitigate the
Horrible Public Relations fiasco?

The simply filthy Tabloids—
Were full of trashy tacky Scandal
The American press even worse!

The embarrassing Headlines blared
The National Enquirer screamed

Ted and Assia so rudely dead—
No need for the Tower of London
Garbage washing into sluggish Thames

Trashy Poet Laureate

Parliament was pissed off—
The House of Lords all paunchy
And periwigged tres aghast!!!

Prince Philip smirked—
“Let the Bourgeois Apocalypse
Finally fucking begin!!!”

Only one Solution was possible—
Silencing Scandal by taking back
The Royal “Order of Merit”!!!

Awarding Sylvia Plath—
The grand Poet Laureateship
Assuaging her Killer Victim Fame!!!

Plath Reborn

"It was only when she gave up
that effort to 'get outside' herself,
and finally accepted the fact that
her painful subjectivity was her
real theme, and that the plunge
into herself was her only real
direction…that she suddenly
found herself in full possession
of her genius"—Ted Hughes,
Introduction, Johnny Panic
and the Bible of Dreams

Arbitrary surreal symbols—
Plath's Ariel poems rather
Overly impassioned and too
Rosenberg electroshockette

Sylvia’s surreal shorthand—
Actually impassioned fast
Reorganizations of the quickie
Relevant obvious facts

Sylvia gave up trying—
To get outside herself
And finally accepted her
Sleek Sappho modernism

But she had to make up—
A quick shorthand jumping
In & out of her Johnny Panic
Closet of Dreary Dreams

Miss Yeats suggesting—
There in the Fitzroy maisonette
The sleek Arielesque racehorse
Guiding her terrible sleek Tercets

After the Reading

“the heavy hammy
American cheap slang”
—Sylvia Plath
The Unabridged Journals
May 19m 1958

She had the bitch itch—
Caught between two worlds
One dead and the other
Powerless to be born

Like some vulgar rejection—
From Ladies’ Home Journal
So humiliating the way
They questioned her Style

Who knows what her—
Poetry would’ve been like
Instead of the usual str8t
Male Waste Land stuff?

Buried down there in—
St.Thomas' Churchyard,
Heptonstall, West Yorkshire
With all the dead dears

And then there was—
Olwyn all snail-faced
And ashamed of herself
Covering up for her brother

And then there was—
That heavy British male
Jocularity one sees in
The Sulky spoiled Isles

Smelly with their own—
Inner corruption and
Greasy unkempt hair
Picking their noses

Anglo-Saxon history—
Corruption, crimes and
Unctuous schmooze
So what else is new?




“The Erection—
of the Myth of
the Bitch Goddess
or Evil Double”
—Edward Butscher
Sylvia Plath: Method
and Madness

Bitchy Poetics

“What Alvarez has not
seen is Sylvia’s love for
double entendres her
belief that the bitch
goddess was male in
her drive for power”
—Edward Butscher
Sylvia Plath: Method 

A big mistake

By the Alvarez literati
Not helping Sylvia connect
More to her Butchy side

Her hotline el primitivo—
Wired to her unconsciousness
Her great struggles with
Both Phallocentric Poetics

Instinctual energies—
Hardly Mauve & Miss Mince
Hardly Alvarez allusive
Sylvia’s Arielesque Artemis

Sylvia was butchy—
New England bitchy too
Sapphic Lesbos Moderne
Huntress extraordinaire

Dyke Fuck

“the masculine urge
of her bitch goddess
who wanted power
and could possibly
conceive of another
woman as sex object”
—Edward Butscher
Sylvia Plath: Method 

The stars stand still—
Clocks stop ticking and
The page burns, my dear

Str8t Male Critics don’t wanna—
Think that the Bitch Goddess
Was really a Closeted Dyke

Her unwritten Self—
Bitch Goddess Sisterhood
Possessed prematurely

American fugue—
Sickened by male Tulips
And crude Electro-Shock

Jaguar Jugular

“Sylvia is playing
with a kind of horror
motif that must have
tickled the imprisoned
bitch goddess to laughter,
sardonic or otherwise”
—Edward Butscher
Sylvia Plath: Method 


Terrifying her sleek—
Thighs, naked appetite
Coiled spring of death

She hunts men—
For their animal vitality
Sucking them dry

Pussy poetess—
British Bitch Goddess
Violent Vulva Vixen

Pike, pigs, panthers—
She’s carnal & carnivorous
Goes for his jugular vein

The Wound

“What was behind Sylvia’s
awesome fertility of the
moment? Something was
nagging at her unconscious,
stirring up the dark waters
where the bitch goddess
had her nest, Ted was
drifting away and her
marriage was about to
collapse.”—Edward Butscher
Sylvia Plath: Method 

Wounded by denial—
Queered by sublimation
Sick of str8t domination

Ted was her trophy—
All the other priestesses
Pouting like Dido Merwin

Face lifts got rid of—
All those wrinkly marriages
Dido wanted Ted desperately

But there’s no way—
Of disguising the truth
Dido’s pussy just wasn’t
Young & supple anymore!

Against Confession

“The bitch goddess
was repressed as she
had never been before
by the young wife
enjoying the advantages
of her new role and the
pleasures of a shared
future.”—Edward Butscher
Sylvia Plath: Method 

Avoiding the direct—
Autobiographical method
Sylvia the Bitch Goddess
Did things differently

She let her poems—
Emerge slowly from
The Solar Midnight
Of her Swollen Pussy

She kept things—
In the dark, unseen
She wrote violently
Letting others pout

Her pussy’s possessed—
An Animal mind that
Males feared in their
Slithery Snakehood

The Snake’s Stain

“Art will endure—
including Sylvia’s own
poetry—the bitch goddess
myth—despite the death
of the other self, the
flesh-and-blood mother,
the sacrificial lamb, a
woman killed by a male
reality and culture.”
—Edward Butscher
Sylvia Plath: Method 


Sylvia’s anxiety—
Wasn’t like Ted’s
With his Pike ideology
And Mytholmroyd myths

Being Bitch Goddess—
Her precocious dyke
Powerful pussy worry
Worse than Ted’s

What was it that—
Stained Court Green
Late at night by that
Old rotting Cemetery?

Sniffing, smelling—
The primal stink and
Stench of all those
Dear Dead Pussies?

Faber and Faber

“Sylvia translating the
bitch goddess into artifice
and defining her terrors
in terms of Hiroshima
and Auschwitz”
—Edward Butscher
Sylvia Plath: Method 


Viciousness in the—
Faber & Faber stairwell
Miss Eliot & her gang of
Queer cronies gathered

Miss Auden with her—
Reptilian wrinkled neck
Leering at Ted’s crotch
Over his tipsy martini

Silly Miss Spender—
Slipping & sliding against
The staircase banister
Wanting to woo Ted too

Miss MacNeice niggardly—
Sipping her drink while
Ted glared at this bunch
Of effete British Fags

Fertility Goddess

“The bitch goddess
was permitted to say
all the things she had
wanted to say but 
could not when
restrained by love
and middle-class
—Edward Butscher
Sylvia Plath: Method 


What else could eunuchs—
And kept men of the louche
And decadent Waste Land
Do but leer and lust?

Getting their hands on—
The Male Modernist moment
Gripping the newborn baby
Concealed in Hughes’ crotch?

Despite their cool—
Aloof Effacement of the
Zoo keeper’s wife hissing 
There back home alone

Madame Sosostris—
Had already predicted
Thru Tarot and Ouija
Sylvia’s Waste Land revenge


“Medusa herself had
been a prime archetype
for Sylvia’s urge to freeze
experience in poetry.”
—Edward Butscher
Sylvia Plath: Method 


Sylvia writes for herself—
In this incarnation she’s discovered
The intoxication of Ariel’s power

The millennium’s sad clichés—
Attending to Yeats’ descending into
Decadent Bethlehem visions

She admires Yeats immensely—
Letting herself go to gyre & slouch her
Way anew into the awful Vision

Arielesque her new nom de plume—
Burning brightly there on Fitzroy Road
Her new Bitch Goddess persona

Bitch Goddess Plans Unfolding

“Ted’s abandonment,
the end of her marriage,
had freed her to become
the bitch goddess”
—Edward Butscher
Sylvia Plath: Method 

A petulant stubborn dizzy Life—
Sickened by Tulips & Electro-Shock
Every poem a meathead manifesto

Larkin calling her in his cold way—
A “Hammer Film poet” who learned
Like Berryman how to jump off a bridge?

You know, like Miss Lowell & Sexton—
Curiously hurried with offhand vignettes
Seemingly too personal to be practical

Shockingly chic yet somehow closeted—
A yolk lace or noose of silk kimono pose
Ravishing, choking, strangling her to death?