Avoided Morning

by Jonathan Butcher

Those all too sweet morsels from the back of the fridge
and the cupboards that stand bare and dust free. The cold
tiled floor that clings to the bare soles of my feet like burning
white ice.

So easy to blinker my eyes completely, like a myth believer
confronting an atom. The half pill and vodka serve well,
offering a lift just high enough to offer me a birds eye view,
but without the burden of vertigo.

Those mornings, when even the trees stood bare with pride,
and the sun mocked with the knowing of my indolence till
noon. I would fall back into bed, satisfied in the illogical fear
I'd adopted.

Only later would I venture outside, the drivers and shop keepers
I encounter all seem perpetually exhausted. However, I was
excluded, boredom was a luxury I was unwilling to auction off
at any price.

Returning to my travels, I would gloat to any ear willing to listen;
no stress had passed through this body, no strain of headache
on my forehead. And again I would collapse, once again beaten
by this game.

Expansion

by Jonathan Butcher

During the slow passing autumns,
we progressed from foraging
apples to mushrooms, our heads
seeking the deeper thrills promised
by our elder leaders.

There in the loft, where we took salvage,
with cider and cans welded to our
untrained hands like extended limbs,
The T.V crackles and sparks, leaving
no room for interference.

Then the next day, the powers that be
sift through our hand forged letters,
our excuses as weak as our attempts
at a hand written ruse; three weeks
of re- writing our sins fifty times over.

Through the windows after each class
the glass seemed that little wider,
and the trees seemed to age with
each session, their branches like
fingers brushing me past,

their leaves falling at a steady pace,
but still without chance of flight,
and despite those promises made by
our elders, our minds still remained
as stable as ever.

Hollow Pockets

by Jonathan Butcher

Another vintage jacket is peeled from
your closet, that defines your excuse
for occupying a room, whatever its size.

Only worn when holding court, explaining
the equations of all creativity, like an over
paid critic, slightly drunk on their own
bitter tastes.

The picture frames that hang like your
original 60's cravat, may as well
remain empty, as reflections from
your shoes denote the need for
carpet bombing your words.

And your vodka is laid by the wayside, no
fear of polluting the verbal targets that the
tinder sticks of your eyes went to so much
pain to ignite. 

The trails of your shirt follow your actions,
and get under our feet like false shadows;
ill fitting, as ever, but only in the wrong light.