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Three Poems
by Samuel Amadon


High Blood 

I' ll tell you that butcher better press
his robes if he wants me to eat more
Agneses with or without onion salt
they do me a number even after five
flatbreads I first boil in butter for safe
passage past the inner sores I'm scoring
up again with help from the Doc's
sharp port that damn Doc sure keeps
my heart leering liquor fast to ensure
his parlor visits where he wrist-holds
my darling hound who I'd call smitten
as the mutt helps belt chest to couch
& it's him I could give a thrash about
& will once that butcher chops me out.

Molars On A Tinfoil Carpet 

Angels don't descend on business these days
& even if they did I've no hope you'd look one
back since this age a wife don't consider eating
herself foot to head so proper or safe as we've
long made this o-snake three tales too overfed.
But soon we'll find a yellow labyrinth that lines
double straight where a chance gear may hunger.
Again today your smoke tastes like apple coat.
I fear poison & calmly employ the office boy
with papers to be delivered as means of a knife
not by my choice but as second answer after
the cake shop alerted my boy that their last
nail was sold. Stay me now what else to hold
when doubtful's the likelihood come to salt.


Prescriptions & Eyeballs 

Would anyone expect me not to entertain a set
of expected guests? Should I've stayed shut in
my bed-hole as the hours traded their number?
No I drank the scotch & ate the bread & swapped
shop with the middle-watch over a rolled dollar.
We shot through three decks of miserable cards
as Omaha poker always ends up deteriorating to
a burning contest that I lost by holding matches
against the bearers of oil lamps & as the ashes
fell all over I knew debris would worry my feet
when the morning came but then again the day
had come by then & my worries were as worn
through as old lungs ever allow them to become
& so goodnight & I set my head & counted one.