Beanstalk
i. WHITE GRASSI have it in my barrel,
with the posture of a pigeon’s mangled foot—
it hasn’t done anything wrong,
& I haven’t done anything wrong,
it tells me that it indeed feels: confiscated & mangled,
no wonder. Tonight we under purple molasses
are ravenous to our chests, I feel guilty—
things have changed,
in fact it is not a thing,
her nickname is Beanstalk, she urges me to write poetry on
her obsidian fronds & white grass, I do.
ii. FULL LIST
Millenia hippocampus
Spud infinity / I watched The wizard of Oz when I was little /
engraving— read the pamphlet from the zoo / vanilla bulb—
Miniature // candles // tablecloth // chunky arms // fruit salad:
Torrent a jugular vein / for future emperor penguins / you’re
too young for this / like your mistletoe lungs on tobacco—
a German wife in a file cabinet / I spent too much money on
Chinese lamps / crushed pearl powder / is mere protein
Hunting
I step on boggy grass, the blades when sharp slice me,I collect my soggy cash,
the stacks when large comfort me,
I land on skyscrapers,
I when lucky am split by their spires,
I snap my fingers off my hand, the doctor when scarred
lobotomizes me,
I’m paralyzed as ice,
click twice for the person of your choice to save you, grass
serves as a conduit for our sustenance, paper of all things
performs poorly underwater, he rummages through our things
now how does that make me feel? I land in a place, I land in a
space where I’m made of the same components as spires, I
strike like I spin.
***
Bubbles blow to pop & pass long grass,
grass leaks petals,
liquid scrapes an open sky,
a sky which inhabits a child,
spaulidly stepping, holding a pink bottle,
with tender aim blows bubbles.
Camouflage, wispy feather, wispy grass, wind in hair strands,
shotgun, a list. This duck plays dead, pathetic.
Dried apricots, lush clouds, belly on comfortable moss—
hesitant. A bisque beak reminds me of my father; his yellow
eyes & sickly body.
My finger grows oily from patience, I know an aunty who
died of waiting, hallways are silent as black mold
I’ve been electrocuted twice, I’m describing it to you:
motorcycle, radio’s top 100, further apart, sandy roads, open
sign. I observe this duck for the time being.
Hades
At my bedside I offerHades one ear & loquency /
in return I keep the
luxury of being pensive /
on slabs of concrete /
in the down cast metropolis /
like conserved manuscripts— /
at my bedside I regret again /
the duvet & my strands
of brunette rosaries /
I’m a real skyscraper /
draping beads of blood /
in birds nests /
my greatest gift /
for the underworld /
like laden fields / only /
forever— / Pluto /
isn’t metallic /
fools in rubber say otherwise /
I know they’re wrong /
Hades convinced me /
with logic & love /
I know they’re the same thing— /
& again; / bed of molasses /
like fire ants / returning me /
this time I’m as sneaky /
as a sly planet citizen.
The crime: trust
I can only fit inside here, your love,my breath unravels for the first time,
because of you, it clicks— I’m
trusting someone, I trust somebody,
I trust. I didn’t know that when we
were at the zoo, holding hands
in front of the baby elephants, they
looked premature to me, what were
you thinking? I looked silly with
binoculars. I knew when the
aftermath of my wax seal was
beginning, I learnt to thank my
delivery boy. My spleen hangs out
of my body & it swings back & forth
like a tire on a tree, I can’t seem to
look away, this can’t be true in fact—
it isn’t. Yours sincerely, Partner in crime.
Dorothy Lune is a Yorta Yorta poet, born in Australia & a best of the net 2024 nominee. Her poems have appeared in Overland journal, Many Nice Donkeys & more. She is looking to publish her manuscripts, can be found online @dorothylune, & has a substack at https://dorothylune.substack.com/
Art Banner: grey field green moon, a visual poem by Robert Frede Kenter. Twitter: @frede_kenter, IG: r.f.k.vispocityshuffle.
IceFloe Press 