4 poems by Amy-Jean Muller

Poetry, Punk Noir Magazine

All Dead Men


Your temper blasted off like the confetti on the birthday you told me 

I was nothing. 

Conveniently forgotten during a three volley salute. 

And I think about it as I hear the bullets cut the sky, 

breaking like the fireworks from that celebration 

but flying over as silver sparrows in your mourning.

There where tears on handkerchiefs for sure that day, 

much like this one 

only with quivering smiles at your better memories,

when I wasn’t nothing

and you were alive.

And the thought brings me back to the reality of your casket

the one I picked out for you

in white 

But for me,

your haunting is heavy and dense like the flag they place on your coffin 

which they wrap up tightly in a fold.

Much like the secrets we kept between us

that I shouldn’t speak of 

because all dead men are hero’s 

Road Dog


Grief sits with you like the stink of a dog

who snaps at your heels when you try rescue him from the mud.

You haul him on your back despite the stench

while the sepsis in his skin festers in every good thought you have and every smile you feel.

Because you shouldn’t carry anything but the weight of him.

The sight of him,

his stench,

and the breath of his carrion, 

seeps into you when his sorrow howls 

and plays out scenarios in your dreams of how he got there. 

Hit down on the side of the road

beaten bloody by a life that dragged him there;

behind some car

in a sack,

with rocks that cut him open,

that you now feel. 

Your Hair Woman


It’s not the same 

unless you let him pull it really hard from behind

until there’s an vicious arch in 

your spine. 

For his visual treat.

Long locks are so feminine, and easy to grab, 

and measures your glory when he’s back there. 

He’ll hold it, twist and tug

pressing into you firmly with a

Thud, Thud, Thud.

You sultry woman!

It’s not the same 

on your body unless you 

treat it, or tease it, or tweeze it, or bleach it 

and don’t complain about it please

and smile for heavens sake.

Remember your hair;

can’t be au naturel,

you have to keep him keen 

just slide back sweetly like peaches and cream.


Its not the same 


Unless you’re just right

Just like in his wet dreams 

where your pussy’s shaven and tight

I’m not porcelain 


Don’t talk to me like I’m some 


frail piece of porcelain 

about to crack at your pressure 

and judgment in the deliberation

into the state of my mental health 

because you don’t hear the things I tell myself


Fuck you


Amy-Jean Muller is an artist, writer and poet from South Africa who lives and works in London. Both her art and writing explore culture, memory, mental health, identity, femininity, and sexuality. She has exhibited her art in South Africa and London. Her writing can be found in various publications and is a regular contributor for Versification, The Daily Drunk and Poetry EIC for Outcast Press. Her poetry book, Baptism by Fire, was released in January 2021. She has been nominated for both Best of the Net and Pushcart prizes. She also writes transgressive fiction and is currently completing her first novel, a collection of short stories, and a second poetry collection. amyjeanmuller.com | Twitter: @muller_aj