Joy Reid
Marriage Parable
Sometimes you monumentally fuck up
and theres nothing to do
but sit and cry.
Theres no way to unscramble eggs.
Dont worry about it
you tell yourself
but the old lie sits sour as stale beer.
Beyond your careful poses
of quaint Nepalese
and forty five cent views
lies what
I
long to see.
That hand for instance
the one that
flopped in
unseen
as the shutters of your
Minolta snapped.
Whose hand is that?
plump as a toad
yellow as curd
ringless, yet possessing
the shoulder of that girl.
Lover?
Fathermothersisterfriend?
And see there
that waning face
pale as fingernails
no cheek no chin
one lone eye killer whale
quizzical.
What black hole
formed that frightening depth?
Show me
no more!
Your flat snippets of curiosity
have no smell
no taste.
Like tombstones
they record life
but not
its meaning.
The Accused
Two girls stand before me.
One seems genuine.
Her fluttering hands
are punctuated with
breathy assurances.
The other stands mute,
relying on an oily aura to
soothe.
Her insincere sincerity,
martyred poise,
obscene closeness,
disturb.
Two girls stand
accused.
One is
featureless as an egg.
The other
stands smug,
an asphyxiated Kewpie
Perhaps... one
tells the truth.
But the other,
the other
is lying.
Calving
Splay-footed mud stumbling,
lopsided belly rolling,
then collapse.
Bloody slit oozing,
sausage casing clinging,
stretched flesh screaming.
Two hooves, too large, turned wrong,
Protruding.
Stroking her, I murmured meaningless encouragement
While she replied with shuddering groans.
Finally, I squatted,
Grasped the thrust out limbs
And pulled.
They slithered through my hands like greased eels.
I thought of ropes.
I thought of winches.
I thought of neighbours.
A moan, horribly human, decided me.
Cursing the cow too exhausted to push,
Willing the uncooperative calf into the open,
Ignoring the straining, panting stranger that was me,
I leaned back heavily.
And the calf came
Halfway -
A girl, white-bellied;
Four teats like tiny fingertips.
'You're a fool,' I chided myself. 'You've
Wrenched your arms and killed the calf and now her mother may not live.
Why couldn't you call for help?
But the calf was alive and kicked to remind me of my task,
So I grasped its slipperiness once again,
And pulled
And the calf came in a slimy rush.
I found the strength to heave it up
To massage its body
To clear the way for air
And the calf stood, weak and tottering, wet and shaking
Filling me with unnamable joy.
Depilated Venuses
Ingres,
I don't like your nudes with
pin cushion genitals,
smoothed, sexless skin.
The bodies you depict -
languid and breathless,
passive and purposeless -
should stride across the canvas
breasts swinging,
armpits bristling.
Not wilt in sensual delirium with lips wet and teeth impossibly Lilliputian
peeping through.
You place a ripe breast here,
a sumptuous buttock there,
flesh captured from every angle in your
torrid, peep-hole compositions.
Give us women
with a riot of hair,
not depilated Venuses,
castrated of humanity.
Maelstrom
self
loathing
surrounds me
a dirty yellow
corpse
that smothers
reason.
It drags its blotched and
bloated carcass
in ever
tightening
circles
till
I can smell
its hot and meaty breath.
Would I had
the
courage
to
mutilate
a knife might bring
release,
a
different pain
might distract.
But then would come
inevitable questions
and shame
and
the
horror of pity
are greater
motivation
than
temporary
relief.
Night Sky
Dark fingers of foliage reach out
To fiery points of light above
Awed as a child drawn by a flame.
Should they ever conjoin
Will their tips be scorched
Or electrified?
The stars tug at my consciousness
A kaleidoscope of winking constellations
Signalling messages obscure to me. Who can interpret their meaning?
A dewy web stretches across the sky
Each celestial orb is transient.
A good shake and all would tumble.
Where is the skulking spider
The creator of the web
The destroyer of the universe?
Let her not come in my time.
Siren Sea
Siren sea,
whose susurrant strains entice,
lisp your unholy longings.
Innocent as Venus,
widow wise,
with claws mantis sharp
grapple the lover, shriekless in submission.
Paramours are plenty.
Octopus sly,
tentacles grind traces
sinuous in sand,
particles jewel-smooth.
Sorceress,
seductress,
slattern,
whore,
such is your nature,
impervious.
Poems by Joy Reid
Flame thrower bursts neon the sky;
tongued fire stabbing polar blue.
Sun slips down a lava bubble burst;
poached egg runny it oozes out of view.
Pine tops cluster, a scurrying black;
mandibles clawing the moon.
Cow silhouettes graze huffed steam;
hooves holes in doughnut clouds.
Pale moths rise in dust mote dance;
a snow storm delivered in reverse.
A freshly married man
left one morning
small dab of tissue
boring one cheek.
He pressed grey lips
to the sky of his wife's forehead
gathered up courage
in squeaky black leather
His wife lay back
on waterfall hair
eyes horizon distant
slow drowning.
She stroked her body
its silk awrithe with dragons
exploring promise.
Thoughts maelstrom whirl sleep away.
A look
a word
a gesture
stance.
How close means yes?
What words spell acceptance?
How wide till a smile turns
to guarantee?
You changed your hair
for me?
for whim?
You stayed to chat
coincidence?
I know my motives
my machinations
I know what calculated risks I take.
But what do you know
of the misdemeanours of sin?
Your small smile
a flick knife flourish.
Your confident summary
of how things will be.
Your curt assessment: nothing more to say.
Arms tightly folded
I stare at your shoe
fastidious holes in nebula swirls
punched precisely.
You've thought it all out
a direct thrust
then a slow unseaming, you'll leave me
bleeding
salvaging entrails.
Why do I watch it, night after night?
I don't get it, what's the attraction?
That over-rated comic with his rodent nose
pinched, sexless body
and runners large as loaves.
The co-star with her Cyborg chin
obsessive permissiveness
and Medusa hair.
The next door neighbour
who ice skates in
throws epileptic responses and paranoid lines
seaweed hair electrically afloat
and the shouting man, the short angry friend
who refuses to work
and is petty with his cash.
Why do I watch it? it just doesn't make sense!
It's petty
it's obsessive
but it somehow twisters you in.
Joy Reid is 35 and lives on a property in Gippsland, Australia, that borders on the Mullungdung state forest. She's been writing seriously for around a year and in that time has experienced a wide range of success including publication in over fifty international e-zines as well as a handful of print magazines. Her aim is to promote Australian literature as widely as possible. Her work has appeared in the U.S.A, Canada, England, Croatia, Israel, Sweden, New Zealand and Germany.