More New Poems From Abbie Normal

Here you go, friends. New poems by Abbie Normal. Oh, you’re so, so welcome. Enjoy! -J.


Automatic Weapons 6

The demons squabble over my pockmarked flesh, a scar on my arm reminds me to be considerate towards others. For-profit prisons, slave labor, nothing new. Having trouble getting my meds refilled, ignorant of others and others made out of ignorance. Why do these little defeats stack up against my triumphs? They don’t even come close. So what am I bitching about? I’m bitching the female dog womb, spayed and ready for companionship. This hate, Elohim, this infernal hate. No more time for laughing. Just time to get ours hands bloody and green, jealous of other countries that are as just as fucked up as ours, but at least they’re not here.


Tent camping underneath a mustard yellow comforter, a pathetic excuse for winter scares the locals but I just laugh, Nebraskan 10 degrees below doesn’t compare. The earth is dying. Better a living dog than a dead lion. Reading Simone Weil, the power of desperation and the transformation that comes with pain, only catholics understand that. Good for her, made famous after she died of anorexia, a sad hunger not satisfied. Michel Foucault describes madness and punishment through the times. Albuquerque police have already killed two mentally ill people this year, of course unarmed. Don’t want to test their aim myself. Thinking of buying a pocket knife until I realize I can’t, knowing that if I’m struck mad like a silver bell I’ll just be another target. Stab the page, not the person, and you will know of true murder.


Things calming down a bit, this writing as cowardly as hiding in a cave from Elohim while s/he exacts her judgement. Put my head on the chopping block, my body convulsing like a prairie woman’s chicken. To love god, to abandon the world. I love the earth, so does mother/father. I love my body, so does mother/father. Strip me of pride, so I may lie slack faced and drooling mad at your feet.

Automatic Weapons 7

Coffee in my gut, Pinon, not my favorite but whoever wakes up first gets to choose, as I sleep till nine and lose my privilege. On the treadmill a little, burning off obsession of disaster, seen so many times in dreams it’s hard not to live in fear. New Mexico churches hang on for dear life, as fallen sheep lay defenseless in courtrooms for child molestation charges. The brain a little slow, the crazy meds do that sometimes. Spending money on porn which I could be giving to some liberal cause, my girl cock rigid from leather and floggers. Trying to erase my gut, vain now suddenly now that I’m older, won’t allow my girlfriend to photograph me because I don’t want to see the ten pounds extra.


My visions, Cassandra would understand, Hans Hoffman books and St. Augustine sit like school girls on the delinquent bench during recess, sharing a smoke smuggled in through police protected, not protected, school speeding zones. Trying to find good memories of my childhood, they’re there, I write them down to offset the yellow slime. Memories crystal clear nowadays, but I’m so sick of whining, but maybe I can get a book deal out of a good honest dosed of misery porn.


Mary statues abound, her solemn archaic face devoid of fluidity, the beef cake fags of the Classical period rebel. My belief is all I have. My belief is all I want.

Automatic Weapons 8

Carne adovada salty in my mouth, the deer lick attracts the hunters, not the prey. The Sandia mountains a yellow gold outside my window. My father just visited, his energy driving me nuts. I love him and all but still. Reading about Etruscan art, the woman and man sharing the same gravesite, the female initiates of dionysos, beautiful rebellion against the boy fucking romans. We are Rome, ready to be toppled. Let us fall. We destroyed the world. Worse than Germany, worse than Portugal, worse than South Africa. An American flag hangs limp next to a McDonalds logo. Burn the silk, burn the sick, burn the starving. Our country is only meant to kill. Let the next act be suicide.

Automatic Weapons 9

Sugar in my belly, gnat bait. Memories cling hang on dig in with meat hooks. Radical right news keeps popping up on my phone. Reading Borges, not sure if I understand it and also not sure if I care. Thai food cold from the fridge to equal out my metabolism. Going to call another drunk today, do something, the opposite of altruism. Selfish greedy stubborn from the cradle. Getting hitched pretty soon, a wife to be. Picked out silver rings to keep away werewolves. So scared, Elohim, so scared. The blank page, a sheet of impotence covers my bad grammar.


Sending out poems, a little too deadly maybe but these are deadly times. I think my dad and fiancée will outlive me, but my selfish heart just has to make sure all my writing’s done, or at least half done to put on Amazon for a nickel a piece. Don’t know how to promote myself, don’t feel too bad about that. Dust to dust. Ash to ash. The earth’s flames will choke us all.

Want more Abbie Normal? Get her poetry collections A Woman Walks Down the Street and Joan of Arc Was a Murderer at Amazon or our web store.