Yours. Your palms on platters, see-through-hearts, non-dom, carousings, your poems as music-box shops, poems in which anything happens and does and doesn’t. All the time casa das pastry pantries. Olfactory auralities. Panties. Leaps forward un-toward. Poem with nerves that cannot be mossed-over, with shavings of truffle like pretty peels of wax with worries in a precarious stack, old as milk to your mouth. Lived on a take-give spectrum. Responsibly respiratory undressing. Your life as Good Zillah/godzillah. Your tracksuit bottoms. Hand-me-down hand-job, sort-of reflexes, drainpipe songs. Matter as language, language as what matters. Matters not: pity-us-little-stories. Multi-identities. No sci-fi. Cultural aplomb/knee-socks/misfit hearts/this-is-who-I-was-supposed-to-be poem oh and composition to Fleetwood Mac I begin not to love you. Poem where being in bed makes a difference. Poem with competency seemingly adrift. Poem in neon through jellyfish/lace/eyelid. Poem that took out a billboard to applaud what love can do. Poem that knows varifocal, at a loss for fixed abodes. Plasticity. Rain-cheating wind-sock earrings, wit by sandwichboard. Antithesis of parking. Halcyonic whispering. Antithesis of online poker. Born under a tentacular sign, born under rosa, bandy eyed. Born under a glad sign. Baubles. Paperweight. Dancing mice. Floral gums. Hard kissing in the vestibule area. What a noise and what a lot of smoke! Poem with The Conclusion, After Thinking About It All Her Life.
Amy Key and Nia Davies