poetry

Night Walk

By Amy Thomson

Fingers laced,
embraced
by navy glitter,
nothing bitter,
city sleeps,
no horn beeps,
no siren weeps,
no children wails,
just wagging tails.
Leash pulls
our lips apart,
again we start,
dog darts.
Giggles swallowed
as we follow
an excited pup
back home.

 

 

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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.

 

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.