Tuesday, September 16, 2014

No More / The Crawl


Jonathan Butcher has had poetry appear in various print and online publications including: Electric Windmill Press, Gutter Eloquence, Underground Voices, Dead Snakes, The Blind Vigil Revue and others. His second Chapbook 'Broken Slates' has recently been published by Flutter Press.


No More

In that flat you rented, that gave us shelter
after clubs, the morning sun's nagging beams
never offering any form of comfort.

Through the blue glass of the bottle I see your face,
pretending to sleep, but with your usual sly grin, again
sending me shivers.

The others that lay around the tiled floor in
sleeping bags, like fragile snakes awaiting to shed
their now useless skin.

I take my last sip, and approach the balcony and exhale
the last of the smoke, and allow it to cloud over this view,
that at this time loses its beckoning edge.

The sparrows that cast tiny shadows upon the
passing stolen cars offer us a little melody, and once
again we promise, never again, never anymore.



The Crawl

Entwined with those cold winds, edging our way
home; stoned, and wrapped up against the world that
has yet to inflict its climatic evils upon us. We held
our collected breaths, our lungs heavy under the onslaught.

You, stood on the corroding brick wall, that surrounded the
sky-rise flats, the lights of which stared down upon us like
a thousand disapproving eyes. Each one however, seemed
as blind as the last, raising their eyebrows at our
every move.

We left those squalid rooms of peeling tiles that curled
at the corners like sun blistered, peeling skin. The walls
as blank as they where damp, yet as inviting as the
abandoned super-market, that our idle hands could never
leave alone.

At the bus stop we leave tags and crumpled Rizlas, the
shelter at this time offering cover from the passing blue
lights and neighbourhood watch. Our sly laughter offering
a welcome distraction from any mis-interpretation, our
hands never bound.

As the breeze settled, through the transparent screens,
that were shattered into tiny fragments like mud stained ice,
we once again halted the orchestration of this shambolic
parade, and again remain the drunken conductors of
a soulless chaos.   

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