Art

Fatal Escape – Amie Norman Walker

October

 

Within these slow moving days

everyone thinks they can feel 

the existential press through time. 

The sky remains bound in grey, 

prelude to winter white nudes. 

Our daring portraits of solitude. 

We graduate each other’s sadist feats.

Praying to a nothing god, likened to a woman’s nod,

her holy eyes feasting on your boyfriend’s cock. 

 

On a brand new day, under a brand new dawn,

I ask myself about real life. 

My father does this on YouTube. 

You think he skipped across many a generation. 

Watch as I stroll theatrically, stroke though the gardens, 

peel my nails back through time. 

 

I saw your pretty face,

Your beautiful embrace, kindness on each shoulder, 

rolling heavy, years older. 

Smirk a little harder when you ask about my day.

It’s a secret, how we pray to make each

other stay. Oh my, my. I hope to not cry.

Child and man knows I can’t help it. 

It doesn’t take long to change one’s mind. 

All blurry and red. All fury and meds. 

It’s really hard to answer what’s happening in our heads. 

I can’t be in yours and you’re not in mine, but when we seek

out to entwine any thought that lost its way it becomes

a pattern and in each weaving one a new lesson.

Fill me up and rinse me out. I can’t imagine loss, gain is 

something built on trust, and within each and every thrust

of meticulous and fateful planning, we have nothing

to disguise, but its always and only from each other we hide.

 

Hear now, how I do not care for pity, impunity, or redundancy. 

Twist around the script, anger never ceased to exist.

Have you ever seen a woman in the back of a hearse?

I can’t explain what’s worse;

Your apparent square posture or internet proselytizing.

Disguise your habits in a laughter attempting to string together

all the want and fury of men so very thirsty. 

Age and build nothing.

There are other worlds in which you cannot compete.

 

Oh, my moment. Each tick through time. 

No tortured pleasure receives a fancy life

It was a Friday night I learned pride is a sin. 

My daughter picked her ears up, shy of the gun,

shot here and in the distance. 

Oh, sorrow, it’s just begun.  

Sugar, so you listen when spoken to, about, or through. 

Nod a big yes. Hold hands just to pose.

Judgement is worth displeasing eons. 

 

I’m ready as the leaves to fall. 

off the face of the earth, off the fate of this planet. 

Escape is freedom and everyone says:

You can’t have it. 

There are only certain eyes I know to look into

and in each and everyone of them my reflection is you. 

True, it’s true, it’s true. 

 

 

 

Witchcraft

 

It’s muggy hot, sticky sweet. There’s empty heat.

I sweat and swear, repeat:

Not an answer to a question.

Not a status to a quota.

Holding no turbulent desire to hire.

Any expression pouts lessening an initiation 

A pattern of Weather creeps the what and why?

Everywhere Flames reach for the sky.

My bones ache from anxiety.

Weak.

   Hearted.

      Slot machine.

             Coin purse.

Emancipated church like burn upon entry,

Deem the toiling bunch a suggested hunch toward bye, bye.

Waif. Soft. Wet.

Lungs in liquid pulling for air positions like a lunatic on the rag.

Burn every right and wrong.

Collide a systematic thought with frequency!

No hope, yet so full.

I unwind the decline and hand over the thought process.

Some other time. Empty stash.

Got no problems, like a man cans rhyme.

My business is not propagated for starving eyes to see.

Fire up a cauldron, sing, singing with the banshee.