The Shadow of My Moonlight
For KSL You sit in the corner of my room Beside my bed Your sweet blue eyes sing a mournful song Our song The nightingale sings a song too It’s about you but I can’t hear the words I ask you to slow down You ask me to keep up We tumble through our little lives Like the roller coaster full Of falling down and rising up We find love at every station Along the way To listen to speak To stretch beyond imagining To find the time to have a beer To tell the storm to go away and Leave us alone Cabaret The Weimer Republic began in the midst of several major movements in the fine arts. German Expressionism had begun before World War I and continued to have a strong influence throughout the 1920s. A sophisticated, innovative culture developed in and around Berlin, including highly developed architecture and design (Bauhaus), a variety of literature (Doblin, Berlin Alexanderplatz), film (Dietrich Der blaue Engel), painting (Grosz), and music (Brecht and Weill, The Threepenny Opera), criticism, philosophy/psychology (Jung) and fashion. This culture was often considered to be decadent and socially disruptive. The mystical arts also experienced a revival during this time in Berlin with astrology, the occult and the esoteric. it was a rainy sunny moody day typical of the neglected mouldy muddled heart of the artichoke the entrée the layers and layers of dinnertime gastronomy they could not find the dressing that filled the spaces dressed their lives smothered their faith with herbs and fetta folly she was sitting right here beside her woman they sat at dinner demure their eyes smelt garlicy lusty should they leave the table that is sodden with goodness get out before the mass avoid the confessional clutch their starving hearts frolic naked in the herb garden smell the basil the thyme place rosemary garlands in their hair suck the undergrowth read banned books joyful forbidden lesbian sex commit mortal sin scatter dead flowers smother the fainting night while taking a bow with Marie Magdalene slide down their river ride over and over and over again The Foetus I noticed the familiar boy sitting outside the pharmacy – actually between the pharmacy and Woolworths. I could see that he walked that fine fucking line between life and death – that delicately fine line, a whisper, a tiny breath, a riddle, a question. Walk the line with your head held high, slice the pandemonium, check the mirror, check the corner, the cops are on the prowl. Sebastian supposed the day disappearing around him he could head back home to the helter skelter shelter it was a very long walk and he had no shoes no coat no money for fun a twenty would get him through the night into the morning without having to endure the blustering confrontation of the boys next door they came in handy sometimes when he was feeling horny or hungry or both He wanted to see his mother soak in a warm bath, slip into clean sheets and smell the summer jasmine outside the window relaxed with lace and silk he wanted to be welcomed not turned away for his filth and neglect not reminded of his unfinished PhD He wanted to sleep like a foetus floating inside a dream balloon to be called down for breakfast to cut some jasmine for the table to sing the song of eternity beside Bach or Bartok his old friends paint his mural on the gallery wall write the haiku for the old church remembering the floating arc that spoke in whispers and made sure he was naked in his ministry to god men he wanted to ride his dirt bike down the track and roar into the river Finishing the weed, he fell into bed with impotent Fred, to dream the river, the jasmine, of finding the twenty for tomorrow and of the next pandemonium. The Dinner Party The baguette fell from the table it hesitated for a while rolled back and forth the parmesan chunk toppled quickly the Chateau Cantemerle teetered then exploded like an unpinned hand grenade spewing its red lips into your black velvet your constancy, your composure now exposed the dinner party fills with absurdity like the laughing giggles treading the grapes the stylish carafes waiting to be served the Bruegel falling off the prison wall the grape vines the mighty terroir mother earth singing her cantata accompanied by the voice of god the scramble for folly fills the room nakedness bursts through veils of constraint card tables are upturned revealing the queens dogs go mad howling hooting at the moon your mouth remembers the smell of the forest remembers the taste of the undergrowth the funeral car rings the bells of delight Another Silent Vision You wear the face of your skeletal mess The scab on the edge of my face itches I wear my pain of broken and shattered Your wear the face of innocence My cuts my bruises my eyes itch they are healing now they are calling you black and blue and yellow the surgeon’s careful lines of repair will hold my eyes in place you will take those stitches and throw them away my memory too my scantily dressed hope you will turn on the gaslight and furtive away Bio: Jay Maria Simpson was born in Sydney, Australia. She worked as an English, Drama and Music Teacher for many years in schools, TAFE and the University of Newcastle. Jay has been a writer all her life. She moved to Perth, Western Australia in 2011 following a personal tragedy. It was then that her poetry exploded. In her poetry she explores reality, change, sorrow, sex, anger, love, escape and memory. Jay pushes the boundaries in her writing. She often writes from a dangerous, fearful place where you will find raw honesty. Her poems might also dance in a happy sexual fairy garden. There is no pretension. Jay loves poetry, art, music, satire and black comedy. She also loves reading poetry publicly. She is not a fan of Zoom. She is the Creative Director and Author at 'Living Dangerously'. https://livingdangerously618190523.wordpress.com/2021/12/21/poetry/
Fevers of the Mind 
Congratulations to my friend and poet Jay Maria Simpson for her showcase in David O’Nan’s Fevers of the Mind. I hope others are able to enjoy the muse Jay shares as I do…
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