MANDY BEAUMONT


Mandy Beaumont is an internationally published poet. She is now an old hand
at spoken word performances and she is the recipient of numerous awards for
her work. As well as putting pen to paper, Mandy is known to do lots of
collaborative work with other artists to make her words more accessible. She
is a member of the infamous "Speedpoets" and is/has been the co-ordinator
for numerous poetry and spoken word events around Australia. She has been
published in numerous anthologies of Australian Writers and Mandy's first
collection of poetry "The regular correspondence of a love affair with words",
is now available from mandy.Beaumont@bigpond.com.







Held together by the camouflage of table topped love affairs
and worked in by small knives
that colour her in a red ink,
her slender hands hold in a room of admirers
who press in on her inner thighs.

Like the brick of school corridors
bending in on summer's end,
the smell of wet concrete
and stale air-conditioning
seem to always follow her
and sit in the seams of her finely pressed clothes.

/she hangs her jacket on her balcony when the season is new/

Placed down and forgotten
her lover steals the noise in his throat
and places it
as graffiti on the bathroom mirrors,
where mid sentence in lipstick cursive
she wants his words to be of ever.

/letters from young artists and ageing men find their way to her and scratch at her midnight and summered eyes/

Inside rooms like this
she lights fires

Inside rooms like this
she swallows fire

Outside
beside trees on a sidewalk,
the placard from a madman reads
'No-one has ever gotten close'
Her eyes close in on the nature of his words
and she burns

/in her bathroom she binds posted letters in gold and brown ribbon and sometimes silence scares her/







Gold glow in low lights
jumps through
the design born of a flossed web
finds itself staining
a military souvenir posted to his wall
breaking off
to corners of an old mirror
and the stainless steel
of a set of butter knives

The cellophane black
velvet/smooth/solid
of the souvenir
pushes to the foreground of
a chosen colour scheme
and sits within the confines
of a smoked imprint that
brought emphysema on

Since the purchase
on his return home from the war
the souvenir
has received daily attention
in a Southside home
that is mostly filled with
prolonged silences

His cupboards still hold loaded ammunition
safeguarded by the air
of boiled stewed bones
and ashen remnants
/his home is set as to not welcome strangers/

In replying to his youth
of khaki greens and
blisters from gunfire
he choses to live alone
and keep security of a high priority

Children in his Avenue
watch through windows
as he tends to his souvenir

and

they think him mad.







He builds a city...

To make a city out of conversation
he cuts down teeth
from his lovers blanched mouth

In a night that fights,
smells of ammonia and
burning steel wool
sit in the corners of
the units' outer corridors
and the red from the tops of nails
glint around his doors architraves
Different shades
/like the age found in a tree trunk/
show his past works in progress.

He finds the pale cream walls in his unit
strangely erotic
loves the smell of stale almonds
that gets caught under his convention oven
And
behind the dull yellow of aged papers
looks for women fixed on afternoon movement

When summer is at it's peak
heat builds in his pockets
tailored to hold in his curious habit
/as often wearing a women's heart on his sleave makes laundering a bitch/

To make a city out of conversation
he imprints hot chillies
into her cheeks
to stop her screams,
and makes her a midnight snack
prepared in silence
placed on a flannelled cloth

His acute sense of smell
finds the edges of scent
on her downed hands
held together by packing tap and
the side of a wooden fruit box
Her fear
caught in every room and between
each glance she makes at the hallway mirror,
shapes blisters at her lips

And, when later tonight he builds
on the foundation of a city
/parring knife, black plastic sheets, Mozart played on high/
his skills in engineering will be tested
For
in all the text books he holds,
he knows that blisters
always make the foundation of a city
unstable.







Arms stretched -
white pale arms
that once held ice creams on school holidays
now fall down the side of an
oversized vinyl couch in a Brunswick Street house

These arms, once healthy from weekend sport and his mothers
roast dinners
now present seamless marks of abuse
and weeping sores from induced heartache

He walks streets on Weekday mornings
- asks strangers where the cheapest deal can be found
- befriends shopkeepers
- lines up at an automated machine
- calls his casual lover
just wants a hit

He never shows his arms to strangers
knows it will impress them little,
but his transient housemates watch marks of bruises change in colour and velocity
- watching their wallets
- never asking questions
He can never seem to shower often enough for her
and finds it difficult to maintain an erection
His family does not call him anymore
and the last factory job he held was over 2 years ago

He feels himself slipping away
feels passion fade
sees the despair in the youth of his hometown

but just wants a hit

He wanted once to taste fear
To cure an illness, stop boredom

He wanted to stop pleasure

Now he just wants a hit




Back to Front.