This in turn reminds me of a poem…Captured at 115th and Allisonville Rd. in Fishers, Indianapolis, Indiana. The sign is real and was up for two hours before someone stopped and told them how to spell PEONIES!
But at least, with Anne Sexton, the floral metaphor was conscious and intentional.There they aredrooping over the breakfast plates,angel-like,folding in their sad wing,animal sad,and only the night beforethere they wereplaying the banjo.Once more the day’s light comeswith its immense sun,its mother trucks,its engines of amputation.Whereas last nightthe cock knew its way home,as stiff as a hammer,battering in with allits awful power.That theater.Today it is tender,a small bird,as soft as a baby’s hand.She is the house.He is the steeple.When they fuck they are God.When they break away they are God.When they snore they are God.In the morning they butter the toast.They don’t say much.They are still God.All the cocks of the world are God,blooming, blooming, bloominginto the sweet blood of woman. –Anne Sexton, “The Fury of Cocks”, 1960
