Three Poems by Jonathan Butcher

 

A Red Brick Wormhole 

 

The headroom in this place always

seemed a little limited, 

that distance between us both

became elongated further

by the pollution of interruption;

a constant block of inconvenience 

at times an always too inappropriate

struggle, like seeking silence 

in the park on your only day free 

for the next four weeks, like always

being two minutes late before asking

the most imperative of questions..

I kick a pound coin glued to the pavement,

the result of a seven-pint induced broken nights sleep,

which refuses to lift these words from their 

tomb, and rests upon my laurels further.   

The rattle of wine glasses breaks the already 

fragile atmosphere, I wish upon fallen

ash and beer mats, for that final hour

to never expire. I bask in an afterglow

of smugness before failure has time

to settle in, and I drink the last sip

knowing your exit will be the first and last

I will witness. 

 

 

Trial Separation 

 

The rattle of an discarded lager can

that fills this city street with a metallic

monologue, only translated 

by the ones who reside here, 

and who appreciate small pockets of silence. 

 

We break from the restraints

of the weekend, a separation that 

is for once peaceful,

and manages to bypass numbness

setting us up nicely for the next time

we finally merge.

 

Another delayed reaction, 

which cushions the fall which begins

head first and doesn't end until 

we are completely consumed.

Our time laid out in the thinnest 

of slices, each one of us returning 

to the start.  

 

 

A Gift Empty of Gestures

 

They cast the same accusations 

of our fetish for idleness, 

whilst we basked among 

those with calloused hands, 

a factor they conveniently ignored. .

 

They accuse us of 

a lack of forward thinking,

whilst they still find plans

by scrying with wrecking balls,

predicting the same 15 year 

loop, with it's circles forever 

decreasing.  

 

For us to dare to challenge, 

apparently stupid in our knowledge,

the only hands bound are those 

that refuse to tick boxes, 

and wave creased flags, 

which flap like broken wings,

and cast only transparent shadows.

 

 

Jonathan Butcher has had poems appear in various print and online publications including, The Morning Star, Mad Swirl, Drunk Monkeys, The Abyss, Cajun Mutt Press and others. His fourth chapbook, 'Turpentine' was published by Alien Buddha Press. He is also the editor of online poetry journal Fixator Press.