Friday, 18 April 2014

16. Hasenheide

Before the fair, the grass hollow
is still a cupped palm,
aching to be filled with candy.

This spring, this benevolent aunt,
has sprinkled puce caravans

& gaudy day-glo waltzers
amputated from their sockets.

Without skeletons, the waltzers
are abandoned porch swings
dreaming of dust.

We are still on the inhale.

The moment before the crest
of the coaster,
our bellies suspended in sky.

Lungs primed
to helter skelter.

In one week we will be flung
confetti, gorged on neon,
exploding gunpowder buckets.

Today we wait with outstretched
palms, waiting
for the gumballs to drop.

Wednesday, 16 April 2014

15. Was this not yet enough?

Listen. We already repurposed
the broken benches of our lives
for new shelves,
for matchstick people
glued together with
the unlicked envelope flaps
of bills we hadn’t got to
yet. We already did good.

When everything was calcified
hip bones, when quicksands
gnawed our blue parasols &
nothing could block
out the sky: we did fine.

Better. We became outlaws
sketching new candescent
lungs. We spun
words from taffy.

Really? Do we still need
to face the letterbox
(it could be rank
with dragon claws
& the lurk of collectors)?

Werewolf demands for all
the scrolls we took as tapers.

I think we’ve done enough—
we can opt out of believing
in four white corners
in missives.

Listen. We already trekked
jungles and now, you, now
you expect me to pick up the mail.

14. Scour

A memory: saying a word
I knew I should not
to feel it burst like a plum
in my mouth.

And: touching a thigh
I shouldn’t—I knew—
but who knows where thighs go
in the dawn?

My mother took soap
and scoured my tongue, with
crushed beetles, bile, frenzied pink.

And the word turned to bubbles,
lodged in my neck

to be hocked up later
    in beds, on backs,
pinned against the wall.

Last night I descended
into bathtubs. 

I scoured my skin. I am still
that girl, who will make
a fast thing mine. Who will taste
everything with tongue.

The loofah smelled of
pine & peat,
distillery casks.

I wallowed in bubbles.
I wrote your name in foam.

I soaked in the water until I
was already clean.

Tuesday, 15 April 2014

13. spring makeout haiku

tangerine mouthfeel
without meaning it, you got
grass stain on my heart

12. Of all things

This, of all things, is easy.

You’ve the keys to my bikes & houses,
I’ve the passwords to your presence

so when you die I can update them all:

see you later stop
    I love you stop
        be back soon (stop)
            I’m gone

This, of all things, is not
quail eggs or sugar-perspex;

it will not shatter in the morning
under the heft of beams of sun.

Of all things, I am grateful that
no matter how lewd or loose

the evening gets, by hangover
I am already forgiven.

My like for you is tough bricks
& scaffold poles.

Already, we have vaulted the cringe.

Monday, 14 April 2014

11. Cartwheels

I woke today believing
I could whirl cartwheels—

warum nicht? After all,
it’s been twelve months &

the fountain is regurgitating
summer, the dandelions

have recommenced
the assault on the lawn.

It’s not so strange that
somewhere in the lunge

of night, gymnastics
soaked into my bones.

What I mean is stranger
things have happened.

It’s been twelve months &
we are not dead yet;

when the wolves pawed
the door we gouged

their golden eyes
with splintered sticks.

The wolves cried blood.

I woke today grinning &
tossed one leg after another.

My ankles recommenced
their flight to the moon.

Saturday, 12 April 2014

10. Taffy

You give me dinosaur feet.
Strawberries on melted cheese-toast.
My want for you is
obscure pregnancy cravings
in search of a
palate cleanser.
There are so many feasts
we haven’t shown up to yet.
The woods are full of bears.
I wake too late on a sun-soaked weekend, and
blue-tits mock my afflictions.
Branches salute like wayward pirates.
The world outside is loose taffy.
I open the balcony door
and plummet into blue.

Friday, 11 April 2014

Editor's Eye

Gary Hardaway says nice things about my poem and picks other things on Fictionaut you should be reading, in this month's Editor's Eye.

"But one cannot describe a poem by Jane Flett– one must experience it first-hand. Her visual and aural imaginings are without equivalent."

 I am blushing and delighted.

9. Grace

Sucker. You walked
in my kitchen, slick
with garlic & grease. 

I slipped banana skins
under your furling
feet; you thwacked
your skull.

My paring knife
slipped a slit
from groin to gullet, and
I licked an oyster.
I shucked your skin.

Inside, you were wet meat.

I stuffed your cavity
with bärlauch and
whispered, let’s writhe
in allium, let’s coat
each other’s tongues.


We were on the floor
and covered in
hollandaise. Your butter
wriggled. I ate

your chunks with no
though of ablution.
Already too late
to say grace.


Wednesday, 9 April 2014

8. What Takes Work

I am willing to strive for the things that take struggle
teaching honour to foxes or signing to chimps.

It takes years to paint bridges or perfect a soufflé
but strive for the struggle and you'll catch a glimpse

of the purpose we stack in the shelves of our person
the reasons we tread through the woods in the night—

it is doing that makes us become whole as creatures;
it is practice and action, completing the rite.

Though holiness lies in the sweet repetition
of a task done until it is lodged in the bone

there are things that take toil; there are wild flights of pleasure,
and you shouldn't keep striving when you should have flown.

I spoke to a mystic about my heart's beating
“It's so hard,” I told her, “But I'll make it work.

I know that the best things take effort and trouble—”
then the night nudged the moon; both started to smirk.

“My dear,” said the mystic, “it's all your decision,”
(she glared at the moon while the moon blamed the breeze)

“pick that path—the striving—of course it's an option,
but know there's no cheating in choosing the ease.”

Her words hit a place I kept lodged far inside me:
a deep heart vibration; a whole body hum.

When trying is tricky you look to the outcome.
But if each part is painful, then what of the sum?

I'd eaten the cake that said: love is a battle
it's not always easy, you might have to chew.


I'd forgot the feeling of breathless excitement.
All giddy and tipsy—a heart set askew.

These days I am wiser and more effervescent,
I gallop my feelings and leap on a whim.

My kisses are waltzers, my heart is a fairground,
and I try for my passions. I don't try for him.