Thanks to Peter W for sending me this track to rework. I just added a bit of minimal piano and split the verse to add space. Big thanks to everyone one who was involved in putting this together.
Have a listen below.
The Black Art by Anne Sexton
A woman who writes feels too much,
those trances and portents!
As if cycles and children and islands
weren’t enough; as if mourners and gossips
and vegetables were never enough.
She thinks she can warn the stars.
A writer is essentially a spy.
Dear love, I am that girl.
A man who writes knows too much,
such spells and fetiches!
As if erections and congresses and products
weren’t enough; as if machines and galleons
and wars were never enough.
With used furniture he makes a tree.
A writer is essentially a crook.
Dear love, you are that man.
Never loving ourselves,
hating even our shoes and our hats,
we love each other, precious, precious.
Our hands are light blue and gentle.
Our eyes are full of terrible confessions.
But when we marry,
the children leave in disgust.
There is too much food and no one left over
to eat up all the weird abundance.
Poem read by Michelle Badillo
Idea & Concept: Peter Wullen
Piano rework by Chris H Lynn @framingsounds
Pic by Lu Semenova with kind permission of the artist
