The Scattering by Alysha L. Scott (read full novel txt) 📖

Caesus

If I am bleak, let it
be of whiteness,
frailty knows
no other veil.

And if I remain
a vessel of memories:
Of beauty, beauty that
lingers forlorn and blind--

Wrap his hands in vines
and not lilies; the moon

bare as my legs, seeds her vision
as the sun casts shadows
over my eyes.


Barber

Hairy little men

I've got, hiding in my ear.


Verbal Contraptions:

By means of saliva,

deep sighs and black

tongues


Has anyone seen the Barber?


He Was Dreaming

My limbs: unchangeable.
From the bowels of the
Earth, up-shoot mushroom
legs. I am stalks of fat, of
milk and honey
Tickled clean, but
remembrances bear with them
loneliness.
I am skin-exposed, white naked
beneath,
roots are stiff and I
let silence breathe
from one hole, two holes

One for spitting, the
other to take in
milk and honey and
all the fat breeding
in my naked red belly.
I am slick and dumb and
blossomed but

based on nothing more than his dreams.
The Dance

Milky threads
plucked by a
swollen tongue

when seasons
melt to
Spring,

the dancing ebb
of spiders; mocking


I saw this when
she smiled.


Paper Moon

and virtue lies
billowed, untouched
sinking into soft
burrows of light. She
spills from nocturnal
mouths; of death
moist and pregnant

Hera, like the Moon
I drank ‘till
I was full.


Here

Fickle fancies dancing
under glass; painted shadows.
I know the Black Array
has made its march and
torched the milky hands
of the dead. Mother,
Mother, he's here! He's
here! Ringing the bells
of sable watchtowers.
I am fickle, I am funny
swooping in, as blackbirds
do with their Winter-
white bouquets.


Very Soon

Very soon will you
understand
the concept of truth.
When you begin
to rest, she
will come to you
and reign in absence,
you will wish you
were there.

Together, we
will tread forever.


Pillow

A master of the
silenced, fatal in
words, Pursing these lips
to the pillow
not to kiss, but to
scorn. A bump grows
to boil, in my dreams
I'm dressed, liquefied,
though they reveal
not truths, but
tall-tales I cannot
decipher. He
sinks into my skin,
the fabric that is
and lies beneath
silences.
silences.
With bellies in the kitchen,
hands in the bathroom,
and a finger in the bedroom:
I try to smile,
no, it is not forever.
What Milk

what milk
never fails,
platonic will
supply

where muscle
will grow
weaker, my grin
can taste
the sweat

when you begin
to bead down
my lily

white

hands.


When the Sun

When the sun
has descended, she,
hanging like an orchid
falls
in Winter.

You will find her
full bellied,

saturated with
tears.


Magpie

Withered wanton
billowing in
blue veined; dancing
eyes

Glitter in my mouth.
I thought
I was a truth

but now I don't think,

I don't think.


If

If I was a virgin, I
would tell you birth
could cure any disease.
And if I could,
my spine would soften,
lips would whiten; fuse
together with thin, wet threads.
If I could, I would be.

be
strangled by
the string of mucus which
once connected me to
the land of the Living;
and of the Dead.

The womb is Bucolic Limbo;
the still and silent
amniotic baptism;
surpassing even mouths
agape,
for cords pitch no words and ears
are still swollen

If I could, I would tell you
of the sickness
Floating: Soft Limbs of Ivory,
a prelude to the Pool
of blue children
and their Mother's once ample
middle.


Yellow

"Stale bread meets."
"Dry legs."

(Applause)
(Laughter)


----------------------->
The Arrow to all
your greatest
dreams.

. . . And the