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Andrea Brady : five poems


Girl talk
Feeding Lola's Brother
1 Will be Back at Nine
Fun   *   Leisure   *   Sport   *   Pleasure


      Girl Talk

Imagination dropped an angel in the form
of a vaudeville Mishach on my
v-neck. I touched her with the back of my
sugar spoon, teased open the fruit of her tongue

with my tiny fish-knife, and ate the pips of her
inner organ as the sun sank in Edinburgh.
Or so I thought till I stood there, in hand a
zapper and a millionaire, and told some guy

the results of the inquest. There's nothing
right for dry bodies, and if one cache
comes up you've got to hand over the serial:
or risk a scratch-out of all lust in secrets.


Bound under rubber coils, awake
on this side of inclination, how fair
laying the right word over's my friend.
The sun in his Bolivia darkens my corner,

his now the hope of heavy growth low patches
and others, crown lands unclaimed, pitch-houses
spreading under green right hands branched unto
heaven. I await his dark right word like a hook

that lifts each edible carcass into sunlight. Will he draw
grizzled attention to this terribly fair hour we spend
bound in the coils of endless sleep. How much fairer
are the ripe turns of my friend's eyes backward

into his enemy brain. When patience is right
it buys the trade though someone surrenders
who knows to a failed concern, but like a pink
cuffed coil my friend has too answered that problem.


      Feeding Lola's Brother

My note of moment is sterling,
a placid queen like Lola grimly bearing
the ride back from London:
her course of pills, my synthetic fidelities
to Orion to friends lucky's reasons

both corrupt and late in carriage. White
fired from the sticks we shush, blood
rattled on Essex flatland we sniff
em out and are distracted with lust.

Placid sterling, agent of this rocking,
tingle in our pockets. Every change
of season brings heat to the danger
of purchase this, and that. Till--

He puts his thumbs on her eyes--

      1 Will Be Back At Nine

To appear in public sectioned as citrus, appease.
On ads to talk a wet red circle. I'd even fund
love of the bawd from hate field to this
very sheet's evidence. Data brought this way by way
                    of the flux. Listening drips on
                    our din-din its need for an hour's
                              light talk.
Kept by customs to a traffic mark, one hovers over these ports for
hours. Another 10,000's another 4-blank interest, one on four off state.
Eye the tide-break's sturdy geometric distribution. More magic
in scattered shabby evils, ready to sue Officer D. Now,
                    connivance this noon of their bubble
                    shelter to my drum-like surface
                              paddled speech.
Remember when we all heard about Arethede, gone
from her column in a blue-frilled jacket. Where is she now?
Hung forever on a comet that underwrote her efficient, endearing,
moving like mercury through the tunnels
                    of ears pen tongue. Forgive oneself
                    the eaves drip where they are with
                          her soulful abandon.
Did we speak on this? Damage scratched in the casings
of the shell of twin interest, dashed to the scene of, goes a
a columnist in impractical collar. Sorry for remembering it
in public. Arethede atones for whatever didn't save her
                    from her unstoppable wristwatch
                    and expedient frill heard and seen
                              loosely, want
the red's wet centre draped in outerwear.

      Fun   *   Leisure   *   Sport   *   Pleasure

Blaze of day has run through clean towels and the Ram.
Back gently among daughters and others.
She casts off her already ruined one for her other one--
weedy quick, industrious with color, foraging for fun.

Blue diesel, creamers, value items pucker over the parade
where burnt kids virgin for once in their goddamn lives.
What darkens the downtown corner near the POW column,
who'd go down there anyhow.

Fair's pin brightness rides into shipping channels
where sand stirs and is made for tonight's dollar-token.
In a house of birds, a house of reptiles, the moving floor
of the fun house and the house of fame.

How should Paulette Bristow have that grace to begin, as blue
as the Aitken girls on the verge of their cautious party
toast each other to vie for the king's hand; she strips off and
puts on a portal of necessity and baby A's diaper.

Something of my own fact possesses. But if I begin in
Gravers Lane, my tiny warm pocket which by levy
becomes a maw to the world, and recoil what ratio
should this citizeness of Britain exact? The pleasure

parade's full of dressed-up pleasant people. Even in America
could my sister cut off her own arm? The leisure of script
forces itself as forward as the Yarmouth sandbar, cutting
off the crude from heavy shipping belonging to a Greek

from baby 2 dabbling. The leisure of preparation
for commemoration appears under 'deed',
my leisure takes a tiny bite of it.
For who shall give thee that grace to begin. I ask Paulette

but she's filmed and halted. For the thought
has pressed forward on her like a sport; I full
court press up to another filling baskets
that way and as my coin, so my coining.


Andrea Brady

Andrea Brady
photo copyright © John Wilkinson, 1999


J A C K E T  # 9 
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