bleached
beneath
a 10 kilowatt
moon
anticipating
geometry
the smell
of soap
that same
instant
calling into
question
bisexuality
without flesh
or
the vibration
of blood

Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.
I'm not cute or built to suit a fashion model's size
But when I start to tell them,
They think I'm telling lies.
I say,
It's in the reach of my arms
The span of my hips,
The stride of my step,
The curl of my lips.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

I walk into a room
Just as cool as you please,
And to a man,
The fellows stand or
Fall down on their knees.
Then they swarm around me,
A hive of honey bees.
I say,
It's the fire in my eyes,
And the flash of my teeth,
The swing in my waist,
And the joy in my feet.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Men themselves have wondered
What they see in me.
They try so much
But they can't touch
My inner mystery.
When I try to show them
They say they still can't see.
I say,
It's in the arch of my back,
The sun of my smile,
The ride of my *******,
The grace of my style.
I'm a woman

Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Now you understand
Just why my head's not bowed.
I don't shout or jump about
Or have to talk real loud.
When you see me passing
It ought to make you proud.
I say,
It's in the click of my heels,
The bend of my hair,
the palm of my hand,
The need of my care,
'Cause I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Line up my broken bones
over a floor of frost-bitten marble
so that you may brand their ice
with the bruises
of your lips.

Sink your teeth into the river
that floats through
the blueness of my veins,
and lands as a stranger
in the velvet of your mouth.

Let my wavering sigh
travel down
the treacherous nape
of your strained neck,
as you trace
the freckled porcelain
of my skin
-to map
the city of my dreams-

-in this ghost town of powdery breaths,
you will *****
the tallest
the greatest
of all monuments.

So hear my plea and
immerse my vision
in the echoes of
your uttered promise as
the tearing muscles
of my desperate heart
reach to grasp
your empty words.

What is our most prized possession
If not the chamber of memories
That we so fearfully keep
Within the confines of our minds.

Every inch of our power
Lives in a constant struggle
To guard this chest of fading treasures
From the writhing hands of time

Yet we have become so caught up
In this twisted dance
With the ticking clock,
that we have forgotten
these memories are naught
but disintegrating ghosts,
whom desperately cling to us,
as a shipwreck survivor
clings to driftwood,
hanging from our thoughts
on trembling strings
-soon to snap.

Despite all our efforts
They will never be immortalised
-and so we are condemned
to drown
in a sea of nostalgia.