Backshed Bullshit Press


“We can’t approve every poet, in case it reflects badly” JD Butler

‘It’s only a name and doesn’t really mean anything’

But it seems as though it matters at the end of the day.

Standards must be kept after all.

It’s only for skilled/educated, literate poets.

We can’t approve every poet, in case it reflects badly.

We must make ourselves look good.

Weed out the riff raff as it were.

Make a name for ourselves.

Only the chosen few will be supported.

Friends and family.

© Copyright 2018, Jodine Derena Butler & Poetry Out West. All Rights Reserved



Freaky Fish & the Stench of Rotting Meat


I could smell it a mile away. The stench. It reeked. A purple suit jacket couldn’t distract my nasal passages, any more than the blue arse flies circling around my eggs bene and an old English breakfast. A seedy but not too bad cafe on Sandringham Road. 

My submission was a waste of time and money in the end.  His slobbering tongue may as well have slid around the inside of my mouth, probing for fishy morsels when he should have been licking the egg yolk, about to dribble from the corner of his. But there will be no saving the 1970’s retro tie from yet another polka dot stain.

I’m sure he could smell it too. My hot, pulsating wet pussy, soiling my knickers over the prospect of having my culinary words eaten out of context. It stinks. There is nothing quite like the smell of rotting meat to make a woman feel heavenly – retch! It cracks me up every time I regurgitate.


It was all business and no pleasure. A typical overcast Auckland day in the middle of winter, but it still didn’t stop him adjusting his oversized proportion trying it on for size. That would be a clichè, if he were unable to stop drooling over my salmon. 

The damage is done. A lingering malaise assuming everyone thinks I suck. All it took was a piece of meat and all the fingering fucked me over. No conspiracy theory this time, just a stench and salmonella in my mouth.


If Nazis were a problem, I would have taken them all out.

© Copyright 2018, Jodine Derena Butler & Poetry Out West. All Rights Reserved


Honesty Died with Bukowski 


“Brown nosing is considered commentary, while deceit still lingers in gaslit ovens” JD Butler

People could learn to say what they mean, & mean what they say but

brown nosing is considered commentary, while deceit still lingers in gaslit ovens; no professionalism, integrity or due process. 

Fraudulent essentially – powerful people full of egotistical self righteous bigotry, who really don’t give a fuck! Zealots who would suck off anything & lick the rim, just to play the press.

I’ve retired, & that doesnt give anyone the license to try to get their end away by throwing a ‘seemingly solid’ literary curve ball at me, that’s totally full of shit!

Honesty died with Bukowski & I wish I lived in America, because I know exactly where to buy a cheap gun

without any background checks.

© Copyright 2018, Jodine Derena Butler & Poetry Out West. All Rights Reserved


Astral Dissociation & the Unattainable Cryogenic Pathway to the Stars


“Who gives a fuck anyway? This makes no sense at all to anyone with amnesia” JD Butler 

Give me a .50 calibre assault weapon & I’ll show you how it’s done properly!


I’m from New Zealand & I can still marvel at the Milky Way, navigate my eyes toward the Southern Cross & find South in a flash.

Orion has a huge belt and scabbard & it still makes no sense; forbidden clichès sneaking up like a sniper in a sonnet. 

What matters, is that poetry is devoid of faux pars & bright stars or anything obviously too subliminal for the masses that may require a deeper space continuum to ponder, an intellect that uses advanced thought to communicate, 

falling on deaf & dying stereocilia hairs. Ears, to those who need further clarification, while my advanced alien brain sits within a universe only the top 2% of the world’s population can grasp. 

The bourgeoisie cream themselves over it, while they play with their pencil & sharpener.


Poetry is only for those with a university education – an English degree, followed by a Diploma in Counselling & a Master of Creative Writing (an advanced degree with Honours). A PhD means power has been attained & is now ready to weild.

We, are merely stepping stones to someone else’s grandiose glory. Poverty & distress are relegated to the past, hidden in a black hole; inertia becoming the internalised abuser. Orion was once the great cosmic overlord, 

looking down his nose.


Better not piss off the editor either, she’s next in line followed closely by someone we all know & love with his proverbial nose shoved up both of their arses. 

Who gives a fuck anyway? This makes no sense at all to anyone with amnesia, but it is my way of creatively dying; poetic suicidal justice, is in a league all of it’s own. 


Now, you’ll all have fodder for your next project fail & that makes me 

an evil genius.

© Copyright 2018, Jodine Derena Butler & Poetry Out West. All Rights Reserved


Lady Lazarus & the Voice of Ratified Reason


“If I had the grace to fall apart respectfully, there would be no need for enlightenment”. JD Butler

He’s using me, I’m using him – both of us working on a palatable means to several ends & everyone’s happy on the dance floor, except me / Lady Lazarus, fully loaded

machinations mimicking my madness & everything I have survived is temporarily erased from my memory / the neglect, the rapes, the con artists & the turning of blind eyes. The violence

of insanity, cleansing the last of my contemptible dirty pieces. A ruse in the end, designed to ratify my plea bargain, still set to drown in a sea of toxic shame, churning

out green bile – something the dogs love to salivate over.


It all sounds so depressing, except for the sun that continues to rise; refracted light beams infiltrating my cracks,

forcefully illuminating all remaining fragments of hope that haven’t yet marvelled at a setting sun. I am thankful.

If I had the grace to fall apart respectfully, there would be no need for enlightenment, you would all marvel at my unadulterated halo & drop to your knees, prostrate

but I am a mere mortal woman. No God could ever carry me across the sand or walk on water or set me down on the island of my choice,

without some sort of comeuppance; paying the ferryman requires nerves of steel / I lack the will to either live or die,

in peace.

© Copyright 2018, Jodine Derena Butler & Poetry Out West. All Rights Reserved




“I wrap myself around you because I never want to let you go” JD Butler

I recognise, that you are as sensitive as I am emotional & I understand you more everyday. It makes a change to see your demons rear their ugly head, while you trust

yourself for the most part & you’re not as corrupt as you think you are, or broken. I’m attracted to your strength. You could never be corrupt, although you carry a weight 

upon your shoulders, that I have only just begun to comprehend. I only learn from what you share, to compare & you will share as you see fit, when the smoke clears & you can look me in the eyes; present,

your true colours in all their glory, will remember that responsibility means letting go – surrender, your last great bastion of growth.


I wrap myself around you because I never want to let you go.

© Copyright 2018, Jodine Derena Butler & Poetry Out West. All Rights Reserved



“She will always lay down the spank & attempt to ignite your bright sparks…” JD Butler

I laid down the spank today, allowing my indignation to spontaneously combust. I exploded & so did he, backfiring.

My flame fired up appropriately ~ something didn’t sit quite well, was unethical, insensitive or just plain ignorant & I refused to douse 

exceptions even now, although I risked being scorched ~ my truth, just too damn hot to handle, those nerves, just too damn uncomfortable; neuron’s,

doing some sort of defensive martial arts’ move off the back of a band wagon, straight into the proverbial bonfire; my face, red 

eyes burning embers, boring into the heart of the matter, without blinking once.

My flame, extinguished in the end but it wasn’t all for nothing & I wasn’t inebriated, so I guess there was no excuse to offer up. I also refuse, 

to apologise for my inner bitch. She will always lay down the spank & attempt to ignite your bright sparks, while you listen & learn.


You know it works both ways. I’d happily lie ~ across your knees while you give me a serve.

© Copyright 2018, Jodine Derena Butler & Poetry Out West. All Rights Reserved


Get Over It


Original painting of Jodine Derena Butler, graffiti on canvas by Adrian Falkner aka SMASH, 2007

He said get over it, 

& he’s right. My friend said to me once that I had to learn to live without needing a man. My daughter said, there’s plenty of replacements out there, (not that she was suggesting anything of the sort) but,

are these really the answers? I know they are all three, onto something, but me. I haven’t recovered from the last one, the trauma that stripped me down to my bare brittle bones & left me incarcerated in my mind – me, the iconoclast 

reduced to a smidgen of my former self. I feel my body buzz, that digital alarm clock refusing to turn off, snoozing indefinitely in some futile attempt to deny it’s existence. My only relief,

an altered state that heals me, temporarily igniting serotonin filling me with laughter & lust, leading me astray into pleasure – the pain, retreating into recessed cavities like tooth decay.

In my natural state, my zombie-like vessel of despair is frozen in a headfuck, not dissimilar to those offering themselves up for cryogenic enlightenment; an obscene experiment, waiting for the utopian dream.

I struggle to hold on.

I smile at memories of when I was on fire, & you gathered around me like a moth, my flame fanning a wildfire of desire & I controlled the burn.

Life’s not like that now. I admire those who can turn a lemon into lemonade, mutton into lamb & a deep dish Russian pie served with liquor, into a feast for days.

I’m so introverted & egocentric that I can’t see you – you, with a heart the size of a universe, a mind as creative as Tesla’s & nature like a Phoenix that’s died a thousand times, only to be reborn, transformed into the beautiful man that you are.

I lie. It’s me who can’t seem to find herself, still lost in that ethereal realm inhabited by visceral ghosts, inciting death & despair into anger & self flagellation.

I am so blind I can’t find my way home. They say home is where the heart is – my home is an empty shell; it’s roof resembling dismembered body parts, now strewn across the lawn in a cyclonic fury, like pieces of me.

It was way too soon to start over again. I am still too fragile to smash.  


Despite it all, you tell me you love me everyday.

Every. Single. Day.

© Copyright 2018, Jodine Derena Butler & Poetry Out West. All Rights Reserved


Sacred Reflections


I can learn to trust:

Innocence, the touchy feely wonderfulness you share with everyone.

Respect, for private conversations with our beautiful friends.

Moments, when you forget you’re with me, until you remember lovingly.

Orbiter’s, that can barely disguise their agenda’s, until you assert yourself honestly.

Occasions, where I risk opening myself up to play – loving you.

Fear, when my thoughts take me to dark places & I have to learn to speak softly.

Silences, that are sacred reflections of us & I learn how to listen.

Times, when unconsciousness collides & I am awakened, letting go.

Your heart, that shines just for me in our togetherness.


I am learning to trust that I will be ok,

with you.
© Copyright 2018, Jodine Derena Butler & Poetry Out West. All Rights Reserved

My Book


I am about to publish my first book of poetry, being released in New Zealand and Australia. My collection of poems have been edited by the lovely Andra Jenkin (New Zealand) and myself with their new format soon to be updated, in excerpt form, on Poetry Out West. 

My book will be available for purchase in all the usual places. Watch this space for book launches (Australia and New Zealand) and a chance to get an autographed copy.

I’d like to take this opportunity to thank you all, for your likes, comments, encouragement, support and critique. Poetry is everything to me and without you all, it falls on deaf ears (hearts and minds).
© Copyright 2017, Jodine Derena Butler & Poetry Out West. All Rights Reserved

Lady Jane’s Ashcat


“…his mantra postulating pleasure & someone slips up, spilling yet another cocktail” JD Butler


Lady Jane breaks out into a smile, allowing her eyes to wander over Ashcat – watching play unfettered magnificently, staring at his beautiful body wanting, waiting for kisses & licks to parlay, his hands moving mountains.


Ashcat, completely at home & grounded, giving; a generous lover of life & people (like she used to be before trauma showed her ugly), he takes the cake with no false pride – her ego aside.

He leaves her pinched – the tweaked kind (still not quite sure she made it out of purgatory), but all she can think about is decòr, finding that perfect vintage pattern, making bunting & a vendor box full of surprises.


Lady Jane heal’s, while showing up under every stone who fake really are; womanizing, homophobic, racist, misogynist, hillbilly rednecks with mother complexes, she steer’s well clear.

Trust mistaking bogan’s for diamonds – fake faux for everything they’re worth (consciously unaware) & yet here he is authentic, laughter lines up between them & light sparks beam.


Ashcat, full of life’s sugar & spice; saffron, baked Spanish cheesecake, sorbet & wine, swings 1920’s while Jane’s fat lady croon’s to wild cherries & Winehouse electro beats, ushering in new sensations where she doesn’t want to wipe that smirk from her face. 

He hands her the mic & confidence soars, roaring through the midnight tunes ecstatic. He breaks out into an albatross the moment she hits her groove, arms pushing & pulling – MC funky time grinds her way into heaven, deliriously happy.


It’s been an age in-between gigs, bands & dance halls, where her voice belted out highs & low’s to crowds of private dancer’s & partners swigging on beers, peering through plumes of green smoke. Auckland, on any given weekend seven years ago.

A complete cellular cycle gone by, where she sold it all for a plane ticket & a ride on a rollercoaster at the Cairns Show – the only thrill worth repeating. Now, she rolls back the years side-stepping potholes & speed bumps, without checking out her rear view for crazy motherfuckers, riding up her arse.


A trip to Port with the top down blow’s the cobwebs, converting sea beans into tapas & something that blow’s her mind instead of arachnophobia (crab slider’s as close as it gets to eight legs). One brief unpleasant memory is replaced with a multitude of self soothing layers.


Circus hijink’s at the yacht club – neon hoola hoops, Lady Jane wearing a purple corset handing out lollies & buxom beauties swanning about fanning burlesque, a sea of legs two-stepping tuxedos, federer’s & fancy candy canes. All it took was a little effort, a time machine & something worth fighting for on their part.

Both of them look karma in the face, willing everyone around them to join in the feast; happy, pulling them out of their own little world’s into old school vintage frivolity. It doesn’t take long for contagion to spread outward in waves of pure, pulsing momentum & before you know it, Lady Jane is whisked off her feet, Ashcat taking her flapper hand in his leading her astray backstage.


An after party, extends to more bubbles & a jacuzzi full to the brim – delightful mayhem unfolds as Lady Jane unfasten’s her corset, Ashcat losing his cravatt & all of their twisted innuendos culminate in uncomplicated hedonism; flesh, tripping the night fantastic!

Lady Jane doesn’t complain. She has it all & Ashcat is himself in all of his illuminated glory; batting those thick lashes, his deep brown eyes a beauty to behold. He smiles before ordering another round, his mantra postulating pleasure & someone slips up, spilling yet another cocktail.


A late afternoon checkout sky, invites their bodies to embrace, Lady Jane rolls over & Ashcat fits the mould perfectly, heavy breathing stirring slumber from an evening full of stars. 


The parties over, it’s time to pack up.

© Copyright 2017, Jodine Derena Butler & Poetry Out West. All Rights Reserved


Unicorns & Rainbows


“Hillary…she’d be the first to ride her rodeo on the back of a silver bullet” JD Butler


War, a battling agent designed to glorify ancient ruminating mores; thoughts, aided & abetted by Kim’s immortal unicorn’s & Trump’s small penis syndrome spouting poppycock, two death stars on a collision course designed to yield maximum impact, vaporized along with sanctioned collateral damage inside a nuclear vacuum. 


My brain is not unlike a chemical weapon, a ballistic missile without the regime change; two opposing hemispheres, except it’s lights out for North Korea & more freedom for America, but thats nothing compared to the super sonic shit storm about to rain down over the rest of us plebs, leaving no other alternative but to join in the furore or bite down on a little white capsule.

Japans fucking proverbial rainbow is the least of my worries – China has that angle covered & Putin’s KGB weighs in on their diplomatic psyops by looking down the barrel of a sniper scope. I’m surprised Trump’s still alive, he wouldn’t be if Hillary had her way, she’d be the first to ride her rodeo on the back of a silver bullet.


We all have demons. Some just have the power to mobilise millions of indoctrinated patriots to do their dirty work for them. Turnbull wishes he had balls the size of Dutton’s border force – the good ole Australian way preferring to torture & torment whole nations into submission & we all know how that ends, except we keep the fight alive by abjectly refusing to surrender. Sound familiar?

Good old divide & conquer tactics they don’t teach you in school. If we all had little red button’s to push, we’d all be dead right about now, that grey slate wiped clean once & for all, but you can bet your bottom petro-dollar you’d need two corresponding red button’s to be pushed simultaneously somewhere else, by someone else for it all to go away. Anyone with a brain bigger than a peanut would have beaten the shit out of their button by now, with a big red hammer rendering them both useless.


I’m tired. I’m tired of listening to monolgues of bullshit – diatribes of voices I recognise & once knew, who taunt me in my waking hours & consume me in my torrid nightmares. I’d like to find a cure, a single dose that does away with it all overnight, waking to find a gigantic mushroom cloud on the horizon, my zombie-like state basking in its afterglow. 

What the hell can any of us do anyway? Hippies are all psychedelic has-been’s & the internet’s got us all dumbed down with information overload, a juxtaposition if ever I’ve witnessed one, the fact is we’re all sitting on our fat arses in front of mobile stargates, waiting for another 9/11 false flag attack just enough to distract us from our disease!


In the meantime, my mangled ovaries sit beside ghost fallopian tubes, in the void between surgical clips & internal organs, floating in intraperitoneal liquid; a vacuous black hole inside a deep space continuum, along with hubris.

I’m using that as my excuse.

© Copyright 2017, Jodine Derena Butler & Poetry Out West. All Rights Reserved


Trusting Eros


“Love & trust; butterflies dancing the jitterbug of intimacy” JD Butler


enlightened, child-like & open, a huge lotus in full bloom, full of all the goodness in this world, his beautiful broken body without any malevolent, preconceived notion’s designed to use & abuse.

He stole Psyche away, saving her spirit in the process, magnetic pulses strobe lighting his way ahead, kinesthetic mind & limbs – delightful fullbodied jolts, his presence filling up the many holes in her senses.


a mere mortal woman; barefoot, pedicured nails flashing glimpses of autumn in-between the dirt, her toes digging in, surrounded by jealous sister’s who would pick & pull her apart given half the chance.

She struggles, resisting all that is good for her, sidestepping melodies with fragrant twists & turns; allowing old fashioned vintage love to lead her astray, before two left feet trip up & over, falling into his arms.


in full swing, is the opposite of temptation & betrayal, so she stays & sways to his tune, soul breathing learning to trust a backbeat into grace.

© Copyright 2017, Jodine Derena Butler & Poetry Out West. All Rights Reserved



Angry Drunk Girl


“It was well after midnight before the first cock crowed & the lights went out indefinitely.” JD Butler

We Ubered into town, once we got our shit together, sorted lines & tripped the lights. The Jack featured Bullhorn & us Dee Jay’s from Ashcats & Rizon, our Friday week off to a roaring 1920’s vintage swing finale! 

Bar tabs, Summers, champers & me, the bar bitch on fine swagger for most of the night – till the light flipped & the angry drunk girl was refused entry. She swung through mad backbeats in-between Bullhorns’ ska, till the shit hit the fan in spectacular speakeasy.

Rizon flipped digital vinyl, off & on like the open & shut of Phil’s steam punk pocketwatch – Ashcat’s in fine time. Me, almost deepthroating the mic, freestyling to a crowd of five hundred or more, just before angry drunk girl showed up again, taking the piss while she ripped off her brazen bustier & let it all hang out. 

It was not her finest hour, even though Carla’s lightbeam replaced stares, calming more than a sea of storming masculinity, it was well after midnight before the first cock crowed & the lights went out indefinitely.


Angry drunk girl reared her ugly head first thing in the morning – then decided it wasn’t worth the effort.

© Copyright 2017, Jodine Derena Butler & Poetry Out West. All Rights Reserved


Penthouse Pet


“I borrowed a very short micro mini, fishnets, heels and applied my makeup.” JD Butler

I was sweet 16 when I worked for a subsidiary of Penthouse Magazine called ‘Books & Thing’s, as a topless waitress in Queensland. It was 1984 or 85. At the time I had no job or place to live and was not allowed to obtain a benefit for at least six months, so I guess it was dire straits for me then, alone and in this beautiful country of Australia.

Up until then, I had been hitchhiking my way around Australia relying on the goodwill of other’s. All my worldly possessions were crammed into four plastic shopping bags, until a thoughtful truckdriver decided to buy me two black Lotto bags. It was a bloody Godsend I can tell you! My transient life became a lot more manageable, and I had a place to keep my red photo album, the only possession I’d bought over from New Zealand, apart from shoes and clothes.

I had initially enquired about becoming an escort, after reading an advertisement in the local Brisbane rag. I remember the receptionist laughing so hard, after she asked me if I knew what an escort was! It was funny in hindsight. I declined to come in for the interview once I knew what the job description entailed, not that there is anything wrong with working in the sex industry, as I would later learn. Like I said, I was 16 then and somewhat naive.

It did however, sow a seed and because I was relying on the kindness of others, I had been feeling a bit guilty freeloading. I wanted to pay my way and I needed to find a job ASAP. One of the truckerdrivers I hitchhiked with had a partner, a short blonde haired woman. She had recently taken me to a youth shelter in Ipswitch, so I finally had a bed and a roof over my head. All I needed was a job. 

I rocked up for my first job interview in Brisbane, in a white cotton jumpsuit and white heels. It was a little bit too small as I recall, my body was developing quite fast back then, and nothing fit well. I was also a late bloomer by comparison to other family members, I got my first period when I was 14 going on 15. 

I filled in a form in a small grey office, with a window and a middle aged man sitting behind a desk. The walls were festooned with poster’s of beautiful women, advertising various things from local events to theatre. He began by asking me the usual questions. How old was I? How long had I been in Australia? Why did I want the job? Followed by, had I worked in the industry before and was I comfortable showing my tits? 

I did feel comfortable and I was also in a much needed job interview, so I was smiling and super friendly, trying to put my best foot forward – well my breasts actually. He asked me politely, to lower my jumpsuit so he could see. I did, and he took a photo for his records. He said I had the job and that someone would be in contact with me about work. 

I don’t think I had to wait very long as I got a call at the shelter and someone came to pick me up from there. He was a very attractive man in his late twenties, from memory. He was to be my minder. He introduced me to some older women in their late teens, early twenties, and they pretty much took me under their wing. I borrowed a very short micro mini, fishnets, heels and applied my makeup.

I won a Best Breast competition in a club somewhere on the Gold Coast that night. All I had to do was serve drinks, topless for a couple of hours and I’d make $100. Too easy! As it happened, I’d been shouted my first tattoo and Little Mick Cosenko put a beautiful bird of paradise on my left breast in Fortitude Valley, and I wanted to show it off.

Later, Mr Minder asked me if I would move out of the shelter and in to his house, no strings attached. I thought about it, but decided something didn’t feel quite right and I trusted my gut. 




“Persephone never quite forgave injustice, but she did learn to shed her skin” JD Butler 

You came over larger than life, in all your big beautiful buxom-ness,

I got you naked.

My legs wrapping themselves around you like spider star’s, our flambuoyant embraces creating seismic ripples in our milky way.

When you weren’t whingeing about the cold – manifesting uncontrollable shivers & shakes, I watched your face smile like iridescent plankton sparkling in the moonlight; the ebb & flow of your once moored reserve.

You let it all hang out under cover of darkness, except for artificial red lights intermittently flashing, innocent for all of it’s risquè innuendos but oh so enlightening!


I don’t presume to know you intimately, although you remind me of Persephone – Hades having honed her fury, tempering Demeter’s mournful wrath all thanks to Hercate.

My third eye dived into your psyche, recognising myself in your reflection. Tidal waves of emotion crashed through and over, till I could see and you could see me.


Persephone never quite forgave injustice, but she did learn how to shed her skin & find rebirth in the spring,

bursting into wild rain.

© Copyright 2017, Jodine Derena Butler & Poetry Out West. All Rights Reserved

Myth of Persephone & Demeter


Monkey Man


“Everybodies doing some sort of haberdashery; feathered costumes & hand sewn labours of love” JD Butler

My monkey man swings through the tunes, 1920’s in psychedelic vibes, moving through astral bodies & trombones, his strumpets shaking everything they’ve got; getting on up, you getting down with the sickness while my Cheshire lights up the room like Charleston

Everybodies doing some sort of haberdashery; feathered costumes & hand sewn labours of love, more broken heart’s than I care to imagine, myself weaving supersystems & stars into eternity while you belt out Orions tune like a demon possessed!

Even Club Reservoir served more frivolity than a mere gin & tonic this time; our Queen having a place to shine, the turquoise scene in sequins wore more hearts than Bombays’ Sapphire – our grand parade my finale, coming home on a backbeat 


You may as well be a gay icon my pretty, but it aint got no swing & I hate myself for being so mean to you

© Copyright 2017, Jodine Derena Butler & Poetry Out West. All Rights Reserved


Guess What


Live your life wishing well, for that is the only thing that will define you”, JD Butler

I know you loved me, because you still watch me, but guess what? I loved you too & where are we now?

I’m happy. I don’t know what you are but I feel you. Even now your eyes look me up & down from afar.

Such is life. You lost your shit & treated me like shit but guess what? This is the last thing you will ever read about you.

My life is mine & you can never take that from me, unless you follow through with your threats to torture, rape & murder.

That’s all you hold on to. Hate. It defines you in your moans, wingeing about this & that, who has done you wrong deserving payback.

Live your life wishing well, for that is the only thing that will define you. You owe it to your girls.

You have your head screwed in a vice.

© Copyright 2017, Jodine Derena Butler & Poetry Out West. All Rights Reserved

Anything but the Girl


‘For her I shine’ by Daniel McLeod Photography

He came over today, the sexy fucker! It would have been nanoseconds if I had my way; his rooster waking me up at some ungodly hour, unlike the one next door that miraculously disappeared overnight 

He’s surrounded by chicks with dicks for the most part & I love playing the diva swanning about in my skanky pants, proudly wearing my Madge of Honour

It’s only when I’m feeling omnipotent I become envious, allowing my Goddess to flaunt her divine masculinity strapped to her inner thighs, milking you for whatever it’s worth in my dreams

I think it’s only fair you get what you deserve, my milkshakes had all the boys in the yard, now she wants savoury pineapple smoothies sliding down around her knees, spitting seeds

So much for demure! I want lust & primal screams awakening my thwarted inner peace, transcendental om’s on my lips & you lost in oblivion

I’m a saucy bitch, quick witted enough to slap you down with a wildwoman grin, your eyes never waivering, once I bring you to life looking up from under lashes

You’re a sexy fucker & I love you more for being tied up in knots I need & stretch with ease, my magic hands working with pleasure

My demons are in awe of your presence; silenced except for my desire, stirring up more than delayed gratification

I want you to fuck me up more than anything! bring her down to your level, where I am anything but afraid & anything but the girl

© Copyright 2017, Jodine Derena Butler & Poetry Out West. All Rights Reserved




Photo by JD Butler, 2017

We were hobnobbing with the beautiful people at the Sugar Wharf, tasting Port Douglas & the gorgeous lady from Delicious in her delightful floral arranged prints

the sexy Colin Fassnidge with his shy humour mesmerizing my mind, looking back through his black rimmed glasses

being fed sumptuous suckling pork & a cracking bohemian rhapsody on a stick (still stuck to the roof of my mouth)

Spencer Patrick, Paul Baker, Monty Koludrovic and David Moyle sharing smiles and solitious wit designed to tittilate our love for a good roast

hobnobbing with the locals, Louise & Mrs Mt Uncle Distillery, their infectious laughter drawing us closer to a ‘Party on the Gin’

some Kiwi’s burst out with homegrown debauchery in between mouthfuls & we were all drunk on life surrounded by Sheraton, lush

my Ashcats’ smile shone through his wandering eyes; my foodie let loose to feast, raising more than a toast to quench his thirst

while I soaked up the abundant ambient art in all its tantalising glory, sipping on much more than life’s little pleasures

we were hobnobbing, loving how Mitch Edwards tied us all together, having his way doubled over & it was all worth it

our Pavilion getaway ending on a Gorge filled with exotic natural beauty, Bush Turkey’s, the rush of white water, stunning emerald pools & divine flora filled fauna like textured tapestries!

we were hobnobbing in the Daintree

Taste Port Douglas

© Copyright 2017, Jodine Derena Butler & Poetry Out West. All Rights Reserved