ISSUE  1   2   3   4   SUBMIT

Three Poems

Amy King

A pseudo-tattoo, as in:
it won’t last, as in:
it was never immediate, as in:
your back to the door with no way in, as in:
this is your last sound of plates, song of glass,
sound of night that doesn’t ask,
radiating, as in: us in.
These bamboo shoots echo decoding efforts,
but don’t expect to rattle a heart in its original nightstand
if you dare monopolize my ears for audible welts
splitting this blameless kind of middle.
The room’s so slow, my mismatching knees, bent,
hold me toward you from the floor, pointed
at your Neptune breasts. The book of a girl really ought
to become a decorated version of belladonna lustfulness.
Yet, there’s something to be said for losing your mind
in the desire to find it. Childhood changes;
grow up to bungle the airport driver, typically called,
“Pilot, take me there now.”
A clouded chairperson couldn’t get her parole in order.
No collie would tell her what was wrong, dumb thing.
Like I mentioned: Come with me, my domino.
Boil the crustaceans into luxury fruits.
Make pajama parties a historical noise
all the way back to a white rose in the garden.
Though since when did the female mammal,
chewing gum, lose her cultural potential?
Fighting evil-doers has become a thing to do.
I used to drown in handshake drugs, until
I got a job to speak of—or you let me back in.
Until we meet again, I’m putting it on ice, this compromise:
I love you the same as t.v. in bare feet, another road to go.
Today is a new pink stone and the color of eyelashes.
Each night it’s Japan, or Osaka for proximity,
and rice wine labeled “sake” with a short “e”
before City Hall at 9 a.m. for gay marriage of convenience.
No cockroaches appear.
Though I wonder,
Who made you the boss of Gertrude Stein in this scenario?
My fingers are also balanced apart.
Within inches comes a slight chill where my head aches.
Hang a photo of our leering childhood
on the wooden headboard to hide
the chipped out lipstick marks.
You cougar lies still too, looks like a lion
asleep beneath her pornographic sun.
Boil smash flour bake, asymmetrical potatoes want
to precede the penultimate vacancy sign that flakes away.
Lastly, man walks into a bar called “Nothing,” though it’s never
nothing. There’s always something to catcall
or spread one’s imagination in moist crevices for.
And if I could remain in this trucker state, everyone
would be beautiful everywhere, or a license plate, at some point.
I'd like to say I'm giving up gravity for the changes in now,
the way light begins its fall down and my sexual muscle comes
astride the slide of your paint or splayed receiver.
You've accused me of exercising my right
to freedom vis-à-vis these accidental
errors of behavioral paper, resembling divined mistakes in laminate.
The monkey in my mouth catches out a faux-self
deprecation designed to establish my first Isabelle or continuous
Isabella, her renewal of the noose we stand sitting to defy a cross
on the martyr of an immaculate diseased
pinnacle project we dub ourselves. Scratch below the belly now.
Lift pliers and crawl this sky-bedded home. A cunning clay
can, a little pan, red devil hot pulp kiss and then the gin's
sheen lipped across your steaming teeth slips back lick.
This bucolic body drinks a lapis stretcher tender,
nearly there, embracing every dialectic that courses between us, we homesick
treating books like windows send moss up timed legs,
between our thighs to the imprint of an ear on sleeping stomach.
Until. No fire escape provides mouth-wide traffic. Forgiveness
leaves her double enterprise, ballast stars opposite their persons who
live ex parte, or in exegesis as though unhilted, unrefined, bullied blind.
Cement the view as strong as this black tar hardened
parking lot. What comes becomes an entire statement child in split-infinite
parts and coffins. Limb after limb, December, in season, crosses herself out.