Three Poems by Jonathan Butcher

 

A Customer's Grace 

 

You can hear the banality of their afternoons even before
they open their mouths. The tick of clocks smothered
by dog barks and the squawks of lost crows.

 

Then the tirade begins; their throats like angered volcanoes,
their phone mouth-piece hovering over flaming lava
and chattering teeth.

A complete bypass of civility ensues, our ears and typing
fingers now sponges for regurgitated frustrations and un-addressed
failings: dissolved interactions, financial ruin, inadequacy;
impotence..

Our calmness carries through, like burnt tyres sinking into
blackened canals.

Once the chests have exploded, and the dust that feels
like our bones grounded by the bluntest pestle and mortar
finally settles, our smiles remain painted on, our teeth
gritted through prison bars, our eyelids pinned back,
we once again thank our forefathers for this opportunity,
to yet again apologise.

 

 

Wishing

 

We were told it would be a gradual

progression, a trickle down of wills,

that would flourish that dead, hardened

soil with spring blossoms; shred the trees

that would normally cast dubious shade.

 

We devoured this like flies on 

amber, our hopes parachuted 

through unbroken clouds. 

Recreation was meant only as 

a pass time, never the full time

profession it became.

 

The final drink was realized, 

emptied into broken glasses,

sipping on cork filled wine, 

that prevented any rebellion,

which was accepted, 

but never fully wilted 

as expected.

 

 

Exhibitionists

Under low roofs they fumble, amongst the spotlights
and the shine of foil-lined windows, turtlenecks
that never quite remain tight, sat in circles, reading
meaning into blank stares shaded by plastic.

A four word rant is applauded once again,
this time with even sharper attention. applied;
a smear of make up across walls and faces,
a pose so brittle, it barely withstands a breeze,
a philosophy that hardly graduates from the
four-deep bar.

Crawling across drink stained floors, the ground
trampled by those more fortunate, as they nail
their tongues to the chairs that still remain intact
and now stare at their masters thrones;
a palace room of gradual rot.

 

 

Jonathan Butcher has had poetry appear in various print and online publications including The Morning Star, Mad Swirl, The Rye Whiskey Review, Picaroon Poetry, Popshot, Sick lit and others. His fourth chapbook 'Turpentine' was published by Alien Buddha Press. He is also the editor of the online poetry journal Fixator Press.