A Month of Bloody Sundays for a Soireè

That bloody clock!

ticking away, oblivious

to the tension stretching

my larynx to breaking point,

reminding my throat

how fucking dry it is

without Vocalzone – my finger,

pointed up when she said

she’d bloody do it.

Rhiannon knew it was

a bit too much to expect

after her long hibernation,

but loved her never-the-less;

hopes, memories and failed dreams.


Warm my little husky chops and

Put on a show, but no

it is not this day.

Falsetto minor slapped back

and bit me, packed up

and packed a fucking sad.

Portsmith Club won’t be looking for


I’d need to practice

for a month of bloody Sunday’s

before Stevie Nicks invites me back

to her condo for a soireè.

I did her too,

I’ve done her a thousand times

belting out vibrato

in A minor.

Here I am ‘pick me, pick me’

I could sing,

I feel so lonely without her.

My happy place no more.

It’s like dying

a savage kind of

musical death and I’m so scared.

Who can be bothered with a


from New Zealand.

I’ll just stay at home

feel sorry for myself a bit more

and cry myself to sleep.

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

2 thoughts on “A Month of Bloody Sundays for a Soireè

  1. Yes. Ageing can be cruel and that fear is very real but that too is a state of mind. I’m reinventing myself – again, and looking forward to a new musical chapter embracing my maturity. I think I have a lot more left to give. It’s exciting because I’m resonating deeper, and that transformation is a very welcome step in the right direction. My music may not be what it was, but it still is my happy place and so I will persist. It’s a painful but necessary process.


  2. Those things that make us happy and they are our personal belongings, inside a box of intimacy. When we grow up and get older, It seems that we become invisible for many people. And this fear of losing our identity is spelling away by our pretty beloved things.

    Liked by 1 person

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