Thrush Poetry Journal
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Alison Eastley 

In the winter of inexplicable dreams

My fetishist hides

a stash to defy any category although if you flick

through the Ezi-Buy

catalogue you’ll find something especially soft,

sensuous to the eye, then check

to make sure

it comes in a large enough size like those shoes

pole dancers wear,

the giveaway signs, big feet, the inability

to dance

to any beat. Your make-up is sublime

in the winter

of inexplicable dreams

you feed my fantasy

with your fuchsia

pink stilettoes stuck in the sheets

of the bed I don’t notice

this waltz has you on your back

and me on my feet

(…then my knees.) 




Love, Sex & Tragedy

(Data from the Australian Survey of Social Attitudes suggest that loneliness is significant in Australia with 35%
of men and 29% of women reporting that loneliness was a serious problem [more like a hunger].)


A true Cynic lives in a barrel,

her sole possession, a bowl. When she sees

Echo cupping her hands in the nearby pool

the bowl is thrown away.

 Who said it’s a dog’s life?

A true Stoic runs a hot bath.

And slits her wrist. The water swirls

like the mind of an inscrutable face.

There is no

psychology here. My face is a blank oval.

A painting from a painting

from a painting. A copy if you like.

I have forgotten

the last letter. A true Stoic

bandages her wrist, gets out

of the bath to layout

unoriginal words. The task completes

a calm unravelling of the bandage,

toes turn the hot water tap to a splash

not heard like the time our sex

was silent as an ascetic’s unvisited

cave. Don’t we all talk without mentioning

the sound of my hollow bones, an echo

of loneliness. Nothing else is left.




The Moon’s Month

1.)    Day 3 is worse than the red circle in my diary.
2.)    I am frightened.
3.)    Cold nights, dark days. They lead to my ancestors.
4.)    Another winter solstice?
5.)    What to celebrate. The dog is on my bed. He growls at the sound of footsteps.
 I see the shadow of a man in my room. I don’t know what it is. My stomach feels sick.
6.)    I drank too much. Then I cried.
7.)    I’m sorry.
8.)    …
9.)    I’m not used to being without. My doctor is away. Who will I ask? And who can I tell
day 3 is worse when the phone doesn’t ring. Midnight messages all deleted. I am a hard-luck story. I have a past and today and tomorrow died with my ancestors. I don’t believe in ghosts. I want a cigarette.
10.)                         I want a cigarette.
11.)                         I want a cigarette.
12.)                        …
13.)                         My back hurts. I used to be a nurse with a sixth sense for detecting bullshit. 
I found it hard to keep a straight face. Small towns are the same. Nobody
14.)                         is to blame. I am ugly but you say unattractive which is how my brother 
described his wife just before he left her. When check-out chicks say have a nice day I 
suspect they are on the Buddhist path and wonder how to stay
15.)                         in the present you simply don’t understand why I am afraid.
16.)                        My mouth opens.
17.)                        There is no beginning, no word sound. I hear you ask ‘are you there? Are 
you there?’, then tell me the reception is bad. Voices cut in
18.)                         and out. My voice is in my head.  I say ‘it’s alright. It’s alright. It’s’
19.)                          …
20.)                         Where does my need to understand you understand 
21.)                        I don’t mind you’re going to your reputation in a town far away.
22.)                         I am your worst kind of fantasy.
23.)                         I won’t do
24.)                         what happens in the land of bananas and broad brimmed hats. In the land 
of clean nails, mild manners, damp hands, warm drinks,
25.)                         my solar plexus glows like an Occupational Health & Safety warning sign. 
If I slip
26.)                         on words, would you write an incident form in numerical order for the 
meeting of upcoming important events? Do you think
27.)                         there is a threat to the pyramid schemes the salesman can’t read redneck
on his white paper napkin?
Does it matter I don’t believe
28.)                         26 is no more important than 27. The fact is you’re leaving.




Alison Eastley  lives in Tasmania, Australia. Previous work has been published in Identity Theory, Mannequin Envy, Wicked Alice, LilyLit and many other fine literary journals and small presses.




Return to November 2012 Edition