JAYNE FENTON KEANE


Jayne Fenton Keane is a diverse poet who has three books published and
who has won awards in numerous fields of literary endeavour.






Innocence

they visit you as fraudulent conservators
blueprints and integrity at the ready
as they scrub your pubic hair down to the bone
and sketch a white frame around your sex

they hang your image between synthetic palms
lather you with sepia and civilization
but you have already washed your disciples

have fractured their angels
in your stainless steel sink






Deep Noise in Oceanarium

ring tone auditorium
:
He looks at me - eyes flippin 'n flappin'
glazed over in tissuey threads.

Wounds surface

bone me to causeway
and sandbank, my answer an impossible
wreck.

Why now?

The wreck is an answer too shattered to speak.
Memoir of a house
cracking its beams. In early spring

after the thaw of spring's heavy snow,
"I have to know” he says, "I have to know."


through the glass
:
Abruptly you blink, the animal aroused
check for danger, check the molten dark
random and vestigial

FEAR.

carp eyed
:
Half mother, half father, half stranger, a stark
narwhal horn pierces ice. There's a body frozen

in a crease. Milky, shapeless tentacle of sea
your invitation is composed of fatal lures.

An alien kiss arcs lust in a neurone's wild electricity.
A lobster's claw grips my language at the sight of

your face, floating in long pale gelatinous strands.
Strewn in the weeds an old purse and a $20 bill.

Faraway now, weary, your torso is wretched and panting.






Calm

Calm. He said
be calm. Her love

chaotic. Synapsis
melting over deformed

clocks. Tongues
deliberately avoiding

truth. Terror
an unrequited

stalker. Truth is
anything but somnolent

calm. All this in
a kitchen of overflowing

pans. Tiny hammers
tinkered between hearts

grappling. Through
the kitchen window, a

bushfire.






Condiments

ketchup
At this stage the crisis is still cerise.

mustard
Photoshop filters applied to seasons.

salt spilled on the table
Inside her browsing iris - View - she is an ancient idea of 13 (years old). full of - Favourites - like so many debutante stories stepping onto the threshold of 13. superstitious searches for the word woman - Tools - greet the lucky girls. She is still young enough to sit open mouthed in front of a horse animation.

chilli
On the dark side of a rump it is possible to taste running.

cracked pepper
Among streets, sky is mere silhouette and the sparrows are noise.



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