Clay

She dreams then immerses her hands in wet soggy clay.

He strides  this methodical missionary, passing pedestrians merely frame his proportioned form.

Sense slips over her burying her

until she is helplessly laden with him in his shirt that balloons over his thick leather belt

the one that he once had replaced at Diamaru where the assistants guarded a smirk for the imperialist whose love is freely crisp luminous white

with a single crease running the length of the sleeves

that are as light as words when these are and easy breathless uttering.

Hers was the familiar catch of the RM Williams click on her front verandah late at night

while a psychologist attempted to cerement love’s place to measures of regard;

it slipped against the continuum…hangs bare, rusting.

Turning over burning brutal details the lust mars:

his iridescent opal blue eyes are a beacon against his face tanned

even though the fence, the pickets excruciatingly selected

she had observed while passing pinned to the left hand middle seat

of the Bell Street bus as finished with a flawless flat cream

Like a vice his approach; her fingers picking away the clay from beneath her nails

as he mindlessly swaggers towards her.

Disgustment

Here they 

Lovingheronce

Because you are so exceptional there are a million moments so fleeting that snatch the mind, binding the thinking matter to frenzy. There is no measuring this multitude when hoary ephemerals…disguised is this notion of one. They giggle as playful children leading the grappling mind to settle perceptions way beyond the surface.

Him

She doesn’t know how, but so wants to nourish his nervousness

To scrunch his himness, to shape this with her artistry

To embed the intangible of him  into her mesh.

Mindful of him, singing him to her then blowing him away

 his seed is hers in safe keeping

 his sons will never etch a mark

 his daughters never scrambling for rejection.

Soaked in pondering him as unobtainable

Her climax burns soft

Too low to be ascertained but she shook nonetheless.

He can only scribble harsh comments.

Rain 

If musings could transcend

and anarchy challenge the sturdy thickening darkness

would we still self and hiss

‘touch… touch… touch’

like a cascade over the darkness petrified?

A child sips warm milo from a Disney mug

looking out the window at night

willing her mother to her as this matriarch pegs clothes  on the line

singing a Chillan folksong with gleeful might.

The severing is complete, yet the stricken images remain

manage to trouble onlookers

as they trip past shopfronts

cross tarmac and tramlines

scale coffeeshops, careen supermarket aisles

appealing to the unsaintly

when their pledge is debris actually

inhabiting an unexplored ditch.

Blame it on the milo

for the child wets the bed

this night.

At a site on Harding Street

The Salvation Army was given the nod

for building a refuge for the age as they plummet;

now eager staff clean smudge proof walls

mustering emotion believing that to bait and trap

funnels paradox.

Regina Brindle

Warbling

pride hampers the impact of the disposal now the framing is dismantled and orphanwords once nurtured lull about laze about shedding beneath contempt for the storyteller who relished the kiss divining its delicate intent poured into a mould then another and the other dare not imagine their own lips bring their fingers to this wet passion caught as if feathered lust trapped in the mesh before the thrust to flight after the waft of upbraided scent inspired the coward’s warbling this having as negligent and acute with the sordid slithering on stomachs to chaste meetings under the clocks at flinders street station barely sanctioned to walk to a lukewarm latté at degrave street with no mention of the audacious german car parked in the side street permitting the slip it in and  blow that cell count just so harnessing the extraneous as named during the cut down left us all gagging  her then gasping on  orphan words that weave and skimmer now.