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

worst.

"An apple tree."

(Applause)
Over there. See?

"She has bitten the----"
(Laughter)
"A funeral of ants have blackened
the palms of----"

(Laughter)

Time.
is dripping.
He's white as


DON'T YOU UNDERSTAND?DON'T YOU UNDERSTAND?
DON'T YOU UNDERSTAND?


-Please turn the page.


Congratulations.
You have completed
(me)

(Applause)

A pendant hangs over the moon. But she
never really cared for diamonds.

(BOO)

"Oh my god! The mice are wearing
dresses and top hats!"
(Laughter)


[She has opened the door.]
It locks
automatically!

(Wink)
She is bent over.
the baby carriage. (Cheap shit. of
of of of of course she'd

love it)

(Laughter)


-------------------------->
The only arrow you will ever know.
[With or without light.]
(Wink)
ssiiiggggh.
YOU DID IT.
"no, no, no. Not hhiiimmmm."


-Turn the next fucking page.


All of your tomorrows will start here

--->

When you're alone in the bathroom and


<---- he's got you by the ankles.---->

END.



The Pool

f l o a t i n g

Soft limbs of ivory, graceful internal pools,

she ( light n e c t a r ) f a l l s , banshee screaming

liquefied Not my child no. Not my child.

the pool is f u l l: pedigree and Adam's ale.

(bleak) a r c t i c z o n e. "one with her h a n d s
o p e n
don't be afraid, she said
no one will know it
just y o u and m e
and when it's o v e r


i'll go back"


Hel's Lament I

The heart beat is
but a ripple beneath his hyde,
only the shallows of my bones know
how to keep me treading on
and on, drowning in and out.

The blinking eyes, the
twisted touch or the calm
of each breath, floating
on a stale ocean breeze

I used to smile to know
I am blue-eternal, a sea-
weed incarnation.
I am ticking,
click, click.
The drum of another season
melting beneath my chest.

A rapid panic wades in the eternal
quaking, quick shiver of my heart

No more sighing, no more:
A beat turns to hum, and hum
to murmur and from hence, a gasp

To be swallowed air, breeding is a place
of breathing,
Oh, hiss, hiss
shining tide,
or not. Jealous of death, the final
pounding wave, a gulp of dry salt:
Drink your tainted water
This is the end of
eternity, maybe, and
this flesh will too
rot, and I am sullen.


Atlas

Flesh falls into
flesh, unattatched.
I won’t say the
aftermath isn’t easy,
doesn’t hurt, because God
made little

white nightgowns to numb
the ideas of hands
and legs and mothers
and babies and leaving

and the art of forgiving.

Art, and the
atlas of anatomy.


Hollowed