Milk White Yield

I've never finished anything
a day in my life
until I die.                      As a periodic degree                      the dream life describes

                   the holes                             used to                                               drain

coherent hypnosis                    by the tool for                    shaping omission              again; 

Youarerequestedtoshutoneeye --                     an alternative which I am
                                                                                 in the habit of presenting

representing two versions excerpted for

my mother was there too she saw leaving                                                             me breathless.      

                                                  I pay a call at a house written on a monograph        borne by two
                    women in the street. 

They wear conversation frequently and incompletely spent in the mouth of a whale 
                                                                              earth underneath turning to sand. 

A Fast Penetrating Spirit Easily Seen Through

You have lost sight of me
in the uprooted wind, convinced
me to decorum:
Bent over a strapless dress, 
though it may be,
                          shrinks back the mutual defects of witnesses --  
They look into translation
punctuate the room
with matte shouldered caresses.   

                         Perhaps they absorb a state
                         of forgery and ask the viewer
                         to stall the blue of color and hunt

All of this before us
lying across our bed     far from the sophistication of the city's center

                             as though I treat another
                                                       for a broken bone hoping 
                                                                            for a personal inversion
within the breath of moments 
in light-light wearing white blouse.

                                                                                            The state of errors

sets a task for the most overcrowded 
in us -- our only subterranean criticism
bears crumpled tinfoil beats -- in each, every cloud

exploits its lining for the nervous system of sorrow.

We know everything alone and the thin reflecting heart
in spite of the hat                         full of interior                         waiting to be drawn.

Say To Me That Your Dreams

A man walks through memory
to epileptic abscess broken intention, 

"I am the animated texture of individual's sound,
one of convex edge and pointed item."

It is not health -- It floats. 

The red person of legs admitted into
the vertical relief a circular staircase in aviation
                                    bears the soft song of a bicycle Japan upon the full flight.

Hello man, we go with park, 
"Having the power of aeons in some of my hand, a lead over my own position."

It draws fire
that the easy output is the enemy already extracted, 
such dye erases fabric on the skin
placing the gate in the frame directly 
behind the foreground gestures
while over the chest the wing tip stills 
a wireless breeze of membrane. 

-- Amy King


[the work] [diner] [dialogue][theory & practice] [opportunities][archives] Volume Two, # Two ©1999 - 2000