Jayne Fenton Keane Australia

B L A C K M A I L P R E S S

B L A C K M A I L P R E S S

B L A C K M A I L P R E S S

Beauty She feeds on a palette of light. Eats stark colours and stresses her vowels. Velvet pours from her mouth. Burlap and sandstone carve an entrance to her smile. Her body is a chiaroscuro-scene. Thin charcoal lines hatch out her landscape. He aims his telescope. Scrubs her pupils. Sees an arabesque curl of light. She turns a polished gaze down the steel of his lens. He exales. She disappears. He stresses. Pours her shape onto the curl of his lens. But she is gone. definately gone. Camping weaving fire. licking. red echoes snap. a lava jaw collapses. too white to support its own rage. there is a huddle in a strung up corner. a gathering of vapours. crazy shapes of light drifting in and out of children. a cornucopia of failing mirrors, dissolving to silver backs. a crooked scent. hair. full length cinematic shampoo commercial hair. singed. special FX skin, an acetylene torch. close up of a fire proof face in a suit. reruns of a man walking on the moon. in the fuzzy bakground, blurred for the sake of art a comet sprawls like a speilberg couch potato at the core of its own gravity. the centre remains yellow, hot and noisy as hell. Circus                     'excerpt from The Transparent Lung In dreams, your hair flows downstream and your hands are floating rafts of crepe. If I unwrapped them, what would I find? A box of hooks, a fillet of salmon a carnivorous bear, bloody with shivers. If I touched you would you turn into quick silver streaks or would you float in a river like a drifting dancing saturated prayer? Contestant No. 5 She has urban hair which shines like a shop-front window's glaze Her face is blended bitumen, pattern-paved, with oasis lips to disguise her desert mouth. She has bones forged from traffic marred by STOP and GIVEWAY signs and intersecting repo men settling the accounts of age. Her waist is fine as an hourglass figurine, corseted by dollar-minting eyes and catgut woven with a diamond claw. She is the crowd's paraphernalia coin, menu, object, tune, plaything for an artery slumped by time on a hinge of memory's solitude. I Love Woman Buy me. My righteous initials. My calls for freedom rhetorical not for behind the venetian blind. I do not invite you behind these razor-edged slats, these blades of concealment. I do not invite you into my secret life of sin. It is only my public avatar that is for sale. My pornographic tequila slamming cherry sucking self is the self I damn. It is primordial, her dazzling spindle of perversion that tempts the Jesus out of my speech. I cannot resist a strategy in stilettos. Save me from solstice in her hips and hers and hers and hers and hers.

All works Copyrighted Jayne Fenton Keane 2001 Used with kind permission of the Poet

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