There is a native valley
Below the hardness that hems
With dreams of manipulated lines
And an innate ability to threaten
The serenade of a branched and rooted air of article
That returns my riven face
To the exasperated wait for a reflection
In the tinted murk of glassI am an ugly woman.
I press my sex into the effete lips of Spring
Enveloped in the lies I tell comfort
When the drawn cry
Becomes the suffocating fritter of wounds
And I move in the calm reverse of retinal sting
With a distended distress
That bites too hard to bare enamel cots
All while purging my agitated recesses
I am a crying woman.
There is a keening that gives chase
To the ingenuity of distorted response
That enters the alcove of my half cleft and winded torso
As the pregnancy of conceit
Burdens my breast bone
Begging for the ablution that is no more than song
That is no more than a harrowing exchange in appearance
But I am breached
And cannot touch the identity in the flowerbed of my belly
I am not a woman.
My sifted root and gut are beseeching
With a frantic audaciousness
To the caress the spit of my weeping petition
In the crisscrossing patterns that kiss the reproach
When brandishing my effeminate organs
Without the harness of repudiation
The fight and scratch of lace
Moves inside me and I drip like coupled brine
I am certain this is the flaw of perception
I am a blind woman.
Interrogating the grammar of vanity
Is a sophisticated betrayal
As the narrative of dandelions do not turn gray
In the ranked teeth of my recycled shadow
And hidden wears so intrusively
In the exposed hyper extended position
Of the tarnished locker of womb
I wear myself thick without grace
And I cannot find the speech of beauty
I am a nameless woman.
“Are you still writing?\”
I noted the lack of drag in question
And felt something like a thief
Because the means and travel of my eye
Could not be seen
I hear the words linger
In nagging of echoes
And the shape of whispers
At the salt upon my grain
And I cannot speak.
I cannot pull all the noise
From the canopy of voices
I can only recognize them
By the places they’ve been
In the strange curtains of liability
It is the cross of tales
Too telling of the contents
The outline that strains
In some weird perversion for
The risk of certainty outside of the stretch
In the vineyard of promise
There is no mourning for the wilted beauty
That moves the blushing roots that hush
My fingertips’ crying chafe
The scent is arching and sweet
And I am just stalk and prey
Pressing upon thin
There’s this eye patch of caution
Where my bandages wrestle
I remember the face of delicacy
Inside of vicious bite
It swells and turns into inexplicable smiles
And sometimes I just want to be the seventh day
With no reservation about my lack of name
Have you seen the shadow décor of dregs?
When the tracks are war consumed
A hasty stir
Follows the urgent trail
That tickles the pulse of ankles
They are the petal gowns
Beneath my naked feet
That tell me,
“It’s okay to run this time.”
They’ve been tethered to a plum sickness
That moves in song of adoring shades
There is no mystery to the way I worship
The secret is my spring tide principle
There is nothing else that keeps me whole
Sometimes it’s an orchid’s shove
Or the violence in the soft hands of a deep amethyst
That demands I always return
There are unfamiliar places too
Something gaudy
Like the sun working a graveyard shift
Or Eskimo kiss affairs with the Son
Or….
Places I refuse to accept.
Their challenge has an unusual body
I visit there with fallen leaf behavior
Because the lack of control
Has the intention of destination
And the confusion that exhausts my nature
Becomes harmless
I wonder what my intimacy
With these places would look like
If I let them meet the enamel fencing
Guarded by a loud stare
Instead my insides tiptoe
And my head shakes
But the ground –
It always shakes back
To remind me of how I walk in circles
Because maybe all of my love
Is in the future
And I have nowhere else to go here
I wish I didn’t know the habitual residence
That rides along the roof of mouth
“Yeah, I still write.”
In the interest of boredom
I say she and I
No longer seduced under
Western flare
They ride each other here
In the seaweed currency
Of current trends
The undertow takes her
Beloved bodies speak to me
She and I
Stowaways under passenger seating
Overgrown damage to upholstery
The assisted breath of escape
A gentleman would have stood up
Silly woman
Weakest grasp on masculine demeanor
And I would hardly call that mild behavior
No hands are virgin to salt and break
Nor the trickling and stagnant
Maybe those are the loopholes
Of rough handles
Maybe the undercarriage
Of traveling ambiguity
Because I\’ve become ankle deep in sand
And she is an uninterested still
Remembering the way
It used to reference to me
But that tongue is white now
Ruddiness and flushed kapok
Make feverish cloth
In the wrinkles of my forehead
Hitching a ride on gilded rising
Or a cute pet name for dreams
Running in place
To fall in love with aging waistlines
Too jaded to be involuntary
I wonder how it feels
When ejection is allowed to sleep
Why the halt of contraction
Has the affection of hope
Waiting for the mention of death
Because all the bust lines
Give a dainty tint neckline to knuckles
And below hails fleeting
A good time in the backseat of a taxi
Struck in varied poses
And I am just paying to leave
For more information on Val please check out the bio on the Quill Fated Scribes Page in addition to Val\’s boutique Val\’s Oubliette.
CCIQ Press 