Three Poems by Jonathan Butcher

 

An Evening's Afterglow

 

As all our fate hangs over half-built apartments 

that litter this city, the tinge of red sky breaks

our morning rest upon public benches,

as the A.M starts, a decrease in words

becomes as welcome as ever.

 

In that courtyard, bodies sit cloaked 

in denim and polished cloth. 

We all rise, without the razor slash 

of an alarm clock, our ears can stir comfortably

and without the inconvenience of shame. 

 

It usually only takes a slight inch,

like the extension of a lie, to settle 

us back into those steps, through

that badly lit underpass, which would promise 

shelter, but only punctuated clouds. 

 

At first thought, that unflinching appeal

increases appetite, until wisdom prevails

and leaves us as stark as those smog filled

streets, and we realize once these clouds

disperse that the only thing an empty wallet 

can purchase is sense. 

 

 

Someone's Dropped a Sword

 

The same packs of faces move towards 

late-licence hide outs and polling booths, 

ticking boxes and slamming drinks, which drip with

liquified promises and that evaporate at the first 

sign of any action needed, leaving dry lake beds 

of influence with cracked foundations. 

 

It all resonates through each night out,

alongside failed attempts at holidays 

and contrived gestures of false ignorance;

as once again they collectively claim 

they never saw it coming, even as they

drag their ankles through soiled tar.

 

The pints sit upon unpolished tables like turrets 

defending the indefensible; their ideology 

now narrowing, like old back streets with only 

shards of credible memories left, the clatter 

of rusted steel on concrete lets out an echo;

"someone's dropped a sword" you say..

 

 

A Badly Wrapped Scar

 

At the first point of call,

all casual handshakes and embraces.

Momentary clock watching to avoid

eye contact, falling into screens 

and systems displaying audio-less garbage.

 

Then slowly we settle, 

the air like polystyrene 

and just as cringeworthy to break.   

I forget why this separation originally 

occurred, its impetus now as distant

as a heat-haze above concrete.  

 

And as with most in life, no maverick 

attention needed, just a slow stroke

of this hour, which allows us to sip

our drinks even slower; for this to linger

until acceptance finally shatters its anchor,

to offer calmness within this enclosure.

  

 

Jonathan Butcher has had work appear in various print and online publications including: Popshot, Mad Swirl, Cajun Mutt Press, Ink,Sweat & Tears, The Rye Whisky Review, The Transnational and others. His fourth chapbook 'Turpentine' was published by Alien Buddha Press. He is also the editor of online poetry journal Fixator Press.