Sylvia.

"All right, let's say you could take a skull and break itThe way you'd crack a clock; you'd crush the boneBetween steel palms of inclination, take it,Observing the wreck of metal and rare stone.


This was a woman : her loves and stratagemsBetrayed in mute geometry of brokenCogs and disks, inane mechanic whims,And idle coils of jargon yet unspoken.
Not man nor demigod could put togetherThe scraps of rusted reverie, the wheelsOf notched tin platitudes concerning weather,Perfume, politics, and fixed ideals.

The idiot bird leaps up and drunken leansTo chirp the hour in lunatic thirteens"
Sylvia Plath (October 27, 1932 – February 11, 1963)