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THREE POEMS
by Amy King


Threadbare Interface

Even brain-quiet
you're a pistol
my motherboard
in a self portrait of sorts,
sorted for the viewfinder
pleasure: here I see
your stockings gartered
across my lap deep
feeling the evolution pour
over what we come
across. The coats
and pants
of velveteen
or permanent press,
which was really
just a thicker nylon
courage for youth,
its frays an easy
fetish, love
in finite waves

I should have wept
for the pulses
while I held
them closer,
our laser guns
lined with mink,
soiled and still

A Novel in Plastique

The functions are important
to the role-play parameters;
I cannot give this.
Instead I give in all your resistance
the length of your perspective
to the deeds communities use

We ultimately sit
& contemplate the floor tiles,
false bottom drawer fringe bearing
the motif coming up beneath our shoes

Dear inward people of the underworld,
when will your existence of soluble faces
rise through our feet in each metatarsal
closing the appearance of deceit,
reversed by the family kingdom seeking

Until inheriting a silenter tonal damnation,
I prefer the broadcast feelers
of my stay-at-home nanny
who before stripping, lap dances
a stand-up-live manifestion of our in-law defeats

Every Last Stare

She has seen the crucifixion and all night fought
for the challenge of weakness, a fixture smoking
bare wall in the lost room's horizon
where the lone man sits in exacted calm,
neither popular nor known, excluding whiskers
as though his face spoke solemnly bruised,
This becomes the last hill of any flower rising
that sleeping pills induce into presence.
This place can be the visual undertaking
where the moon will sleep and settle upon.