poetry

Itchy Sweater

By Amy Thomson

Rub,

scratch.

Poor material:

chemical,

arterial.

Take it off,

this itchy sweater.

Trend setter.

Out of my skin,

onto the floor,

rotten core

exposed.

Suppose,

I buy a net set of skin,

one akin

to models

and stars?

Behind bars,

one’s self,

one’s shield,

peeled,

revealed:

Amy.

 

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poetry

“Molly, you bitch.”

By Amy Thomson

One hit,

drip drip.

Up nose,

down throat,

Burn.

Yearn.

Safety,

hasty.

Too fast,

outcast,

Too much,

my crutch:

Anna Marie,

I look to thee.

Stay with me.

Hear my plea.

“I’ll use my student ID.”

Glow sticks,

shitting bricks.

Fucking shit,

losing it.

Call Max,

attacks:

Panic,

manic.

Implode,

unfold.

Vertigo,

we couldn’t know.

Just breathe.

Adderall?

Trip, then fall.

Molly, you bitch.

Nerve glitch.

Which witch

would pitch

fucking with you

after going through

your wrath,

aftermath.

Mushroom cloud

enshroud.

Lesson learned,

This bridge has burned.

 

poetry

Off-Balance Balance

By Amy Thomson

Store-bought transmitters
steadfast
strong.
Dulled jitters
heart flitters
taste of bittersweet
saccharine.
Head heavy
pulled down
in submarine
sertraline.
Can’t cum,
heart’s numb
under Complacency’s
adequate thumb.
Quit school,
too cool
too okay
to stay
here,
not out of fear,
but why steer
when I can float?
A balanced ghost
of Amy Christine,
learned to coast,
prescription post.
Not survived,
kept alive.
Inertia derived,
destruction contrived.
Off-balance balance
replaced by tranquil skies
by placid lies.
Feet up,
laid back,
frets lack,
new knack:
No care,
cool stare,
going nowhere.
Life’s infinite treadmill
powered by last bursts
of light
a sight,
burning stardust,
ember distrust,
gasoline lust,
into Earth’s crust.

poetry

Good Mourning

By Amy Thomson

Let us mourn the day
the Willows laid down,
down into the ground
to build the new town.

We built on their heads,
our hands are stained red,
now that they’re all dead,
we’re filling with dread.

The stream once crystal,
tranquil and blissful
now wan and wistful,
free-market’s pistol.

Our forests of steel,
shield everything real
our bubble we seal
in order to deal.

“The wolves have dwindled,”
we read on kindles,
“their homes we’ve swindled,”
“we packed their bindles.”

Let us mourn the day
our Mother will burn,
forever we yearn,
but never we learn.

 

 

poetry

Hill’s Quilt

By Amy Thomson

Gone mute,

words left in concrete,

scattered in cracks of sidewalks.

 

Car horns

replaced with robins’

melodies that dust the air.

 

Asphalt

replaced with soil

that resembles coffee grounds.

 

Trees reach

for the cyan sky,

like the steel buildings back home.

 

Shiver

as the sun kisses

every inch of eager skin.

 

Quiver

as the wind carries

the brook’s comforting babbles.

 

The hills

tucked under a quilt

of tartan chrysanthemums.

 

Much like

the ones that wilted

on our kitchen tabletop.

 

The thought

floats out of my ears,

joins the Kingfishers above.