poetry

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.

 

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poetry

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.”

 

poetry

A Well-Bred Bitch

By Amy Thomson

“Here, let me explain…”
the sweet mating call
echoes,
penetrates her
slowly steaming silence.
“Actually…”
intellectual peacock
feathers flare.
Eyebrows raise,
face feigns interest,
reacts with contrived courtesy.
The teapot screams on mute.
His facts are wrong.
This is my field.
How do his lungs hold so much breath?
A well-bred bitch
swallows opposition,
washed down with blood
from biting her tongue.
A well-bred bitch
digs valleys
with nothing but fingernails,
peels cuticles
like Thanksgiving yams.
A well-bred bitch
remembers to nod
as his drones cut
the bitter cocktail
of condescension.
A well-bred bitch
serves soft smiles for dinner,
not chilled facts from the fridge.
For a well-bred bitch
is aware of the fragile
china in front of her,
passed down through generations.
One wrong touch
and it shatters.
She prefers IKEA.

poetry

Apocalyptic Activism

Bones tired,
will expired,
now sour,
lack power,
lack movement.
Improvement
futile.
Political dial
broken off,
sent into space
without a trace.
Away with logic,
to hell with peace.
Our planet’s lease
ending,
evicted.
Science predicted
heat waves,
dance raves.
Hurricane,
litocane,
collagen,
glamour sin.
Lush lips,
stock dips,
Flint sips
a pathetic excuse.
Water,
getting hotter.
Women walking
museums.
We’re so dumb,
give us some
attention,
bad intention.
Cat fight,
a trite sight,
despite
our innocence.
Compete for jobs
not slobs.
Kiss The Man,
not a man.
Grab pussy,
you wussy.
Honey,
money Trumps
choices,
voices,
losing hope,
grab the rope.
Pray for end,
let Her send
a quick goodbye,
for this land, I’ll die
so She can sigh,
and wonder,
why?

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.