Amanda Kay Writes

an infant, ripening sun is rising yolky, yellow, yummy bright as a baby's gummy grin lionhearted like a four year old she peek-a-boos over the horizon beaming, bewitching, blazing strutting around in glittery sassypants tickling the day awake with smiles embracing the warm air and cool earth with trembling arms this angers the established suns the dim and brittle suns the cavalier suns high on brightness the fictional suns going to church the huffy and narrow suns so the established suns shoot down the infant, ripening sun they pull back on their bows aim and let their arrows fly piercing the infant, ripening sun she flops to the damp ground sunny side down

you embossed carbuncles playing God when the part’s already taken all you do is grunt primordially and impersonate palpable people God’s understudies, you are not   you parasitic nincompoops like vampires, you have no reflection in windows, in mirrors, in lakes all you do is suck amniotic fluid through a plastic straw   so I peed on you right on your front lawn I sat down moved my panties and shorts to the side and relieved myself yellow tears soaking into your pallid skin my own little fuck you to the sanctimonious kangaroo court   

first a bleed seeping scarlet scratched in public shrouded with the night sour stomach and stooped shoulders   then a seed small simple sown in darkness springing into the sun surprising swollen eyes and sleepy soles

there once was a girl from East Armpit who took her whole life just to admit she was more than they said was just fine as instead the folks from the Pit were the unfit

it's a cartoon an elephant perched precariously on a red and yellow striped beach ball ready to splat a sucker clown the instant it's tickled with a feather but is it the elephant or the beach ball producing all the ruckus when the beach ball bursts spraying the crowd with pink confetti elephant flab echoing off the canvas all the while, Calliope belts out a loud chorus stone tablets littered at her feet         Here rise to life again, dead poetry! Let it, O holy Muses, for I am yours, And here Calliope, strike a higher key, Accompanying my song with that sweet air which made the wretched Magpies feel a blow that turned all hope of pardon to despair — Dante, "Purgatorio", Canto II, lines 7 to 12  

blow up, dynamite bandy lies, consternations ping pong personas nascent states have recipes separating babes from sludge