Scott Thouard

Overload #31

Brisbane Poetry


hung herself:
from the hose
like a pendent –

slung back neck,
sweat in the hammock
of spine.

her exquisite body
ratcheting –
against the pull,
of cotton filled hose

Her audience below,
where strut winged souvenir seller,
carry mini-flags,

a sequined afterglow,
in dry-throat disciples
waiting the dipsomania
of her dance off.

In the Yellow Hour

I counted eleven

yellow rabbits counting
seven beats of yellow

pupils in a lizard stare
shattering into yellow

skeletons, the obese daffodils,
yellow habits

no longer neatly laundered,
the hanging yellow

suits on yellow head pins
of tickets handwritten

by an owner of yellow
nails and skin

that smells yellow-a scent
wood expels when cleft

by the yellow-handled
axe that cuts

into the orchard thighs;

in the yellow kitchen
unaware, she watches
the lard drippings yellow.


Sitting, ankles
navel extended
looking down
on the boards.

Where many
feet have trod
where backs
have rested
chairs scraped
where splinters

Sitting ankles
staring down
the horizon
where feet,
backs and chairs
fall through
wispy knots.

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