Jayne Fenton Keane country : Australia bio: Jayne Fenton Keane is the author of two poetry books, 'Torn' (Plateau Press 2000) and 'Ophelia's Codpiece' (Post Pressed, 2002), with another 'The Transparent Lung' due for release in 2003.
Please visit JFK's award winning multi-media website 'The Stalking Tongue Book II; Slamming The Sonnet' at www.poetinresidence.com and sign the guestbook.
The Transparent Lung is due for publication in the next few months and will be available from www.postpressed.com.au where you will also be able to buy copies of Ophelia's Codpiece.
Dialogue with apostrophes Excerpt from Bag Woman in a Helium Room
Welcome to my helium roomI can dance in the sky
see how their beak-teeth scar my arms. Look
look into my moon spacehere's a photograph
see seeme see
before they drove the moon buggy across my dunes
before they stuck their flag in my backlook at how I
Would you like to research some lonelinessI have the time
not like those factory - filled masturbators who smear themselves on paper girls.
I must leap and curl on my urban breezecollect some
paraphenalia.There's always that dull ache in winding spaces
Open your self absorbing eyeand you will seeI am nothing
but a childplaying morning tea.A child in a fielddancing
in a suit of amourprancing
swaying in the breeze like saplings
bendingsingingmelodies to calm the night's distending.
The medals I fiddle now
are flecks of timeI know the smell of
my own treasonyours hints of steel
MPIT/HCTCCAPAJ (mobile-phone information technology/highway cable
television credit card acronym-power-abusing junkie) cyberPUNK.
GIVE ME BACK MY LIFE.
Excerpt from The Transparent Lung
Going To Battle
My wife gathers up her skin
and learns to walk on water.
I am up to my waist in a brakish lake.
She is an ice-sculpture
carved by a Chinese artisan,
who decorates her with winches
and a central red light.
She pulses at me day and night,
rigid with positivity.
She will not let me sink.
rusted links slip under my arms.
With every turn of the winch
apiece of her falls away. I worry
that we will both meet halfway
(Excerpt from The Transparent Lung)
My father is developing a shine on his chrysalis. His eyes are a simmering geyser that boil with …
I cannot tell what is really there, though everyone tells me what they think I want to hear. They are frightened
of my knowledge. Of how I might breach the protocols of this family by scooping up those boiling eyes
to make soup. They are frightened of my scrubbed aluminium hands, of the alphabet-pasta words
that spell love and hate and everything in between. They have tidied away the fish scales and hooks.