Index of poets

Corinne Lee


David Bircumshaw
Pam Brown
Jill Chan
Jen Crawford
AnnMarie Eldon
Claire Gaskin
Jeff Harrison
Jill Jones
Mark Kanak
Christopher Kelen
Corinne Lee
Cassie Lewis
Lizz Murphy
Sheila E Murphy
Alaric Sumner
Louise Waller
Mark Young

Renga -
  Andrew Burke,
  Jen Crawford,
  Louise Waller,
  Lawrence Upton,
  Kristin Hannaford,
  Jennifer Compton,
  Heather Matthew,
  Jill Jones
  Alison Croggon


If you're planning on vanishing, you telegraph,
holding my fist, leave hard.
Leave hypersonic.
I'm brim weary of your spooked
. But I'm too fat and fraudulent
for that. For last night
and my plea,
once again unmet,
for you husbandly thighs, their sandstone
and codex. And for this too pearl morning,
our daughter
with a swallowtail's antenna that shudders, bend-breaks
as she slides
her matchbox closed. Silent witchery. Such casual
harm. I want to be fished
from this airstream
by a picturesque giant, his slingshot aquiver,
and then buttered
with petals. A close second: I snuff the butterfly
with ether, a merciful slaughter.
To ensure observation's
remote kiss. Our child
strokes wings' lemon powder, rubs
dull iridescence on my cheeks,
lips. The nourishment of decadence,
its comfort just before
an end.



Even the quitch loves, sashaying
belly-blade to blade-belly

when wind is low. Most days,
we fail to notice
that elusive, Rastafarian

canoodle. The poems
therefore darting away, sunken,
through the halls.

Our words becoming escapes,
not spoor. Why can't
our selves intersect
with the exterior?

Because something is sclerotic,
strung high
in the Burundi
Salvador trees. Where dewdrops

are slaver. Listen up:
The Egyptians jettisoned

a mummy's cerebrum, knowing
the heart should do
all thinking.



Send out 100,000,000 electrons,
one by one, and trace
with paint
the pathway
of each journey. When merged,
their terminus art
is a seaweed tangle,
but vaulting.
Cathedral of netting. Unlike
this chapel crate
at the children's hospital. Huzzah,
a priest, milky way
of pretentious statements
against a jazzy background.
Jesters careening
from room to room,
on bicycles made
of hay, while my daughter
wails. Wasn't it the goal
of Venus
to seduce, to gavotte
with Death? Can't begin
the dance. Digitata, nori, alaria,
dulse. Come wrap
this mother and her glue seep, nail
pocks. Wearing her faulty construction
under klieg lights,
for everyone
to see.

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