Dude-bro

By Amy Thomson

This one is about the fucking asshole men that came into the restaurant I work in 15 minutes before we closed, treated me and my female co-worker like shit, were incredibly obnoxious and loud as they shot the shit with the male bartender about basketball as they stayed 30 minutes past close, kept the kitchen from cleaning their shit, and literally booed me (very loudly) to my fucking face. I felt my veins course with adrenaline and rage. Instead of losing my shit and beating them over with their stupid-ass snapbacks they wore as 30 year old men and going to prison for murder, I decided to come home and channel my rage into a poem. I will call it “Dude-bro” and it is dedicated to my lovely co-worker, Gray Nielson.

 

Dude-bro, no,

I won’t let it go.

We closed twenty-fuckin’ minutes ago.

 

Dude-bro, chill.

Pay the fucking bill.

No, sir, you can’t get a fuckin’ refill.

 

Dude-bro, hush.

Your brain’s fuckin’ mush.

You clearly ain’t even tryin’ to rush.

 

Dude bro, learn,

Ain’t always your turn.

Get the fuck out now and never return.

 

Dude-bro, boo.

You don’t have a clue.

Phallic energy makin’ me feel blue.

 

Dude-bro, bye.

I will make you cry,

Kill you, grill you, serve you up on rye.

 

Dude-bro, run.

Gonna be real fun,

Won’t know what hit you when we fucking done.

 

Dude-bro RIP,

We laugh as we sip

Blood of dude-bros that made us lose our grip.

 

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Dancerian Mania

By Amy Thomson

Cells buzz like sky wires,

she keeps dancing, never tires.

Through grey rain, her feet turn blue,

smile stained, nothing new.

She dances through the city streets,

kissing everyone she meets.

Twirling down the interstate,

swirling home, it’s getting late.

Finally, her feet meet sand,

ocean gateway to homeland.

Her battered feet begin to heal,

delicious moment’s peace she steals.

She pirouettes into the waves,

home at last, she is saved.

quiet spaces

By Amy Thomson

Souls bound,
found pieces of my own
thrown under friend’s car seats,
dropped in side-streets,
wrapped in bedsheets
askew.

Places
like spaces between words
in loyal paperbacks,
in sidewalk cracks,
baggage unpacked,
I’m new.

Spotted
blue dotted between leaves,
ancient thread in Earth’s sleeves
weaves me to you,
a deja vu
soul glue.

Restored
by the cord that fastens
wild Pines to Aspens,
magic happens
in hazel pools
of two.

 

 

Mousetrap

By Amy Thomson

First impression,
confession: smitten,
fangs bit in,
venom dopamine,
first serene,
then you got mean,
razor tongue cut my folly so quick,
you’re sick,
trick your prey
to come play,
I pray
you recover,
discover that
you’re prettier smiling.
Filing moments
before we were opponents,
components of misery simple.
Into your mousetrap,
bones snap,
heart slap,
they’ll lap
your lies.

 

Mr. August Williams Wallman

By Amy Thomson

Did you know that’s my name?
Eternal burning flame
motivating,
sometimes draining,
mostly adorable,
though potty jokes horrible,
I’m so glad you yike me,
let’s play family.

Miss Iris

By Amy Thomson

Hello Miss Iris,
so pretty and stylish.
Forever inspired
by your golden fire.
Sunshine rays
cut through haze.
I forget my sadness,
fill my cup with
G L A D N E S S.

Lebensmüde

By Amy Thomson

Three-twenty-two am,
memories stem from dusty corners
long forgotten,
gone rotten,
like fruit left in sixth grade lockers,
she walks her skinny legs
home.
Porcelain bowl
full of that night’s dinner,
getting thinner,
she’s the winner
and the sinner.
Years of tears,
then high school years
of Pepsi for lunch,
tomato to munch,
stomach to crunch,
walls to punch.
“Where’s your food?” he asks.
Her mask taut,
“I forgot.”