Dibb

when I was born
I was an orphan:

illegitimate problem child
doted & despised

promises were made
& broken

carpets were pulled
knives were drawn

ashes & best wishes
dead & buried

I don’t belong to him or her
or them,

they
look
down
their
noses

& my favourite line
is snivelling

Dibb

© Copyright 2010 Jodine Derena Butler.  All Rights Reserved

Fey

An emotional midget lives inside my fettered mind.
The sprite kind, green as the Irish
young, like Danu’s children dancing,
invisible to most save Fey.  She is gullible,
easy prey for those with nothing better to do -
they say opposites attract: I am like rat bait.

She is not quite right in the head my sprite
but don’t get me wrong,
she might have a little hunch in her brain stem,
walk around muttering under her breath,
but she is conjuring up Narcissus
in an attempt to fill up the holes in her white tunic.

How she came to be this way is a long story,
suffice to say that public humiliation is akin to Oedipus Complex
with a tiny bit of Penis Envy on the side;
there is nothing quite like having an orgasm at someone else’s expense.
If you are a man, well I guess you just grew a little taller,
women, maybe just a little bit smarter.

My sprite has been known to feign a smile.
Rather than cower in the corner, she has worn patches.
I heard this one woman say she would never
have plastic surgery on her face, in male company of course,
then make an appointment to have her breasts enlarged,
the bags under her eyes lifted.

I wear my heart on my sleeve most days melancholy.
She plays while listening to The Pied Piper
watching hoards of people leave single file.
Emotionally speaking, she is not known to accurately sift thoughts;
binge eating her way into the Guinness Book of World Records,
one defiant leap of blind faith at a time.

My wee lass likes to be alone, but craves
the company of others so she doesn’t have to hide.
Once upon a time there was no such thing as social isolation,
the preferred title was Witch rather than loony toon.
She thinks too much, trying in vain failing miserably;
second sight may as well be as viable as the second coming.

In my mind, my confused emotional midget state of a mind,
I am wondering where she has been and where I am going.
Most days I re-live the past with distorted accuracy
staring into the wide blue yonder sitting on my desktop.
She looks out on to a Google landscape, straining
I can’t see the wood for the spam.

© Copyright 2010 Jodine Derena Butler.  All Rights Reserved

Dysthymia

D on’t mind melancholic meanderings
of my psyche,  festooned with fervent ranting’s;
water-coloured lines distilled over time.
Y         ou see what you want to see.  I
have no control of yours.  my only comfort is
the willingness to breathe life into otherwise
contrived lives.
S          ee (ing) through opaque, leaded glass
cathedrals of coloured splendor, give
rise to the muse in me.  the sun in words
rises in the east with the future
and time.  I cannot see past the red
hue on the horizon.
T          he yew – an ancient tree.  synonymous
with dead wood and revered branches
of old. wisdom once gained, lost long ago
on mass hysteria.  I digress.
H         unger pains
perverted by the cruelness of lust
rage and longing;  layering
serves to cushion psychic blows.
Y         earning only serves to belittle
normality a figment of the imagination.
feeling isolated from the masses is probably
a blessing in disguise.
M         adness,  invites
a semblance of restored faith to jaded
emotional jigsaw puzzles.  sequestered
identities, like my idiosyncrasies.  mundane
existence is tangible evidence that
conflict earns respect and
honour akin to martyrdom.  subjugation
I           ntelligence? Is nothing more than that of
the Descartes and Hippocrates of yester-world,  doomed.
archangel’s like Michael are
condemned by their own father;  there are no
mother’s in sight.
A         deliberate oversight in my book.
It doesn’t matter at the end of the day,
mental illness is like God,  everywhere
but it’s only called dysthymia on a bad day

© Copyright 2009 Jodine Derena Butler.  All Rights Reserved

Excerpt First Published by Like Minds Like Mine, 2010, ReTHiNK the Meaning of Madness, a Respond-Response Community Art Project, ‘Ethosphere Exhibition’, exhisbited at Te Karenga Gallery, Auckland

Happy Faces

So this is what it’s come to
distant memories of innocence
lost long ago
memories relived, mistakes
my undoing, all played
out on life’s stage

you’re out there miles away
untouchable, I tell myself
over and over where I’ve gone wrong
it’s too much for the bravest,
I’m not
I know what they’re thinking

I hear it in my head
like a broken record, jumping
over lines.
I look for ways out,
ahead of my future
there is no parallel universe

in my world
just constant reminders
of what I fail to become
and could have been
if it weren’t for me
I am swimming to stop the sinking

feeling, dragging me
down.  it would only take one gulp
one backward sigh of relief
to make it all go away
I never do anything by halves
I am no saint

no martyr for a greater cause
I leave behind everything
that ever was
they could never understand
what I know is my truth,
my world

I don’t belong here anymore
than the rest of us
but you don’t complain
if I could reach out and touch,
the sky, I would
melt away, floating my drops

I trace tracks with my finger
down the window pane
my happy face
smiling back at me

(in memory of Ian Curtis, Joy Division – D.O.D, 18th May 1980.  The birth of New Order.  The 2007  movie release of Ian’s life and times is called Control)

© Copyright 2009 Jodine Derena Butler.  All Rights Reserved

the righteous & the wicked

Righteous. Pictures, Images and Photos

behavioural voice-over
exposed negatives
eyes flashing a jaded smile
ruminating/pessimism

recycling the truth
defying natural laws -
impulsive machinations
scream
in the face of boundaries & trust
limited
to ones own imagination

wonders never cease to amaze
here
in the recesses of my mind
it is I who control the masses
giving voice to unspeakable
shame

I am like the freedom march
my own prison: a running scared
commentary

my shank is chipping away
at the mortar leaving
remnants to slip

protection & self worth are inextricably linked
my inner critic my own worst enemy
here
the righteous & the wicked
seek refuge

© Copyright 2009 Jodine Derena Butler.  All Rights Reserved

I Am Sylvia 

I wonder how it was.
Sylvia locked away
all those years
inside
untouchable -
incarcerated like Frida
painting her
escape

I am alone in her.
My own padded cell
akin to 3 square meals
a day
if I am lucky,
no daily visitors
for I am cursed
unlike Sylvia – blessed

I may as well be
a ward of state,
owned, privately
operated on a pen
and paper budget
my four walls like
Fear and (self) Loathing
in New Zealand

I pose the question.
Many times, on
deaf ears, meaning
and purpose, meaning
whatever will be will
be, but for now
I am Sylvia -
there is hope for me yet.

© 2009 Jodine Derena Butler. All Rights Reserved

First published by Blackmail Press, Issue 28,  http://www.blackmailpress.com/Index28.html