poetry

Another Day at the Masquerade

By Amy Thomson

The closet of masks

sparkles with gleaming teeth,

beneath empty eyes,

hollow lies

lie lurking.

Always working

the perfect angle,

trust is mangled

and coated

with sugar bloated,

empty words

that fill your ears,

crawl into your brain,

center of disdain,

dissolve.

Conversation involves

crafting your smile,

spitting saccharin lullabies

from your gleaming teeth

catch your reflection,

caught the infection,

staring back at two, hollow eyes.

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poetry

Field Tending

By Amy Thomson

Construction booms

shake the rooms,

rattling, rumbling, reverberating,

perforating the hour.

Deliberating the ultimate power:

Time,

how to slice it just right,

keeping future in sight.

Still learning from the past,

too late to cast

necessary wisdom,

intoxicating system

breeding bees

to make cheese

a tight squeeze

in the schedule,

a sexy tease,

a little hair pull.

Clumps of hair drown the drain

the wicked pain

of lost dreams,

blown away with kites,

a bittersweet sight,

aspartame bite.

Can barely find time to breathe

without choking on guilt.

The Empire we’ve built

starts to wilt.

Time caresses valleys around

Mother’s eyes

regrets disguised

as her children’s tears dried,

refused rides,

became brides,

she tried

her best.

The red giant will still

set in the West,

even after we’ve gone,

The East will bear dawn.

poetry

Midnight Acid

By Amy Thomson

 

It’s hitting me

all at once,

energy

part of me,

part of it,

something more,

dancing off screen.

My poem is       d  a  n  c  i  n  g.

Inhale

can’t fail.

Intense.

No sense.

Senses on fire,

Perspire,

Waxahatchee lullabies

energize.

What a night,

who knew?

Now you do.

It’s strong,

so are you

you’ll be fine.

Give it time.

Pupils gleam,

two black pools,

tools to see the unseen,

psychedelic gene,

third eye clean.

 

poetry

Benjamin Nyle Wallman

By Amy Thomson

My Sunday morning
needs no warning,
no alarm,
pure charm
dances on your sleeping eyelids,
dusting your face
with a trace
of lust.
I must be your little spoon,
stir my Sunday coffee,
a little sugar
licks my lips.
Pull my hips
into your corner.
The world’s horror
dissolves
into eleven am.
Resolved by noon.
Framed by you,
my gemstone,
perfectly calm,
trace your palm,
give you powers.
“You got me flowers?”
Hit snooze,
I’ll lose
nothing
save for stolen glances.
What are the chances
I’ve found you?

poetry

It’s Okay To Like Yourself

By Amy Thomson
Distorted reflection
plants seeds of infection.
Wine-stained eyes
see through lies.
Stolen glances,
Red Maple branches
frame two hazel ponds,
forming bonds
with myself.
Learn to love
the freckly galaxy
that dances on my nose.
Suppose
I don’t hate,
even appreciate,
my mismatched tits,
full of wits.
One Hawaii,
the other, Lanai.
Promised eruption,
media corruption.
I resist,
I persist,
I consist
of 126 beautiful fucking pounds.
Sounds like vanity,
it’s really just sanity.