Art

The Flash Was On. – Amie Norman Walker

I’m here. Milked beyond Capacity. 
I treat each moment in two fold, repeating retreat,
And with each pressure upon my exuberance for all things
superficial, Infinitum, I quake. Awake. Barely.
I skinned my knee to spare you the pleasure of never having seen me scab. 
I like most importantly to be heard when I am not shouting.
Goats alike are animals, none worth anointing, yet 
the goth continues trending, as does Satan worship,
for the rebellion can hardly get over religion. 
Spare me the change. I’ve no attitude. 
I love the way my face looks yellow in any hue, selfie or not. 
My kidneys breathe better than my lungs.  Oh, brut denial. Oh, faded lineage lust.
When Bred the best they cum in a mess 
And heave their toil upon your must;
Again denial and mistrust, it’s like she’s 
Been completely undone and the pot is 
Just a stool for her to pose upon and rot.
Such exquisite desire man does have for her fire, her wagering thrust. 
Her healthy lips upon the stock, aimed to cock a coked-up lookback, 
So upon that ass a man might smack a mighty fine “that’s mine” sign,
until her daddy comes to claim it back. 
Gentle steed, wish not for drama.
There’s no telling how long the terror will last
but upon this earth we are stuck like dirt 
until death comes calling, pulling on all our little skirts, 
yanking down our mistreated guidance to look the other way 
and fucks us into the brightest light we ever thought to be. 
Oh my lord! Look at that, it’s true the pussy’s fat.
For out comes life! Again! 
Not the surgeon’s knife can end the cycle while denial is written 
in blood on the empty church walls and all around the city halls.
Endless we bleed to keep the words burning bright in sight for all 
to see anything is meant to be but when a virgin tears apart 
the grace and spectaculars of life then what existence might
determine if this is wrong or right. Women, men, endless, profuse. 
There is a perfect delusion, an abstract conclusion, 
one wrapped up in controversy and confusion. 
All a bit mixed up and bored, bothered by being left behind. 
The self respect it takes to not commit suicide is up for grabs.
I hope you write a good speech. I hope you hear the applause.
There is no other sound and money is scattered on the ground.
The earth. The mother. The gift of life. 
The womb torn open for us to desire feeling born again.