A Month of Bloody Sundays for a Soireè

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That bloody clock

just keeps ticking away, oblivious to the tension

stretching my larynx to breaking point,

reminding my throat how fucking dry it is

without Vocalzone.

Stupid me, put my finger up didn’t I and

said I’d bloody do it!

Rhiannon knew it was a bit much to expect

after her long hiatus, but I loved her so much!

It’s so un-fucking-fair. My expectations of me,

others, hope’s, memories and failed dreams.

I just want to sing. Sing my little husky heart out,

warm my chops and put on a show – but no,

it is not this day.

My throat peaked off into falsetto land

without my god-damned permission!

I nailed it yesterday but those professional folk

down in Portsmith Club won’t be looking for

quirky.

I stuck my bloody hand up and said I’d do it,

knowing full well I’d need to practice

for a month of bloody Sunday’s before

Stevie Nicks invited me back to her condo for a soireè.

For God’s sake!

I know I can do her, I’ve done her a thousand times in my dreams

and belted out that husky vibrato in A minor.

I sent the man a text ‘Can’t bloody make it’,

knowing his contemptable chuckle will reverberate through the atmosphere

on the other end.

Why did I do it?

Put my hand up and wave frantically for someone to take notice,

‘Here I am pick me, pick me – I can sing’.

I could sing, really well, years ago in my thirties and forties.

I feel so lonely without her.

She used to sing me to my happy place but not any more.

It’s like dying a savage kind of musical death and I’m so scared its over.

I don’t think musicians can really be bothered with a

washed-out-has-been-old-girl

from New Zealand.

There’s plenty more fish in the sea, so it seems.

I’ll just stay at home and feel sorry for myself and

cry myself to sleep.

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

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Kuranda Dreaming

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I drove the car

up the Kuranda range today, the trailor laden

with water-blasters, hoses and fittings.

I didn’t say much.

I dropped off the boys, and left them behind so I could wander about the market,

wishing I was barefoot.

I still blended in.

No makeup, except I could have worn jandels or thongs instead of proper shoes,

and a larger dress to hide my burgeoning bust.

It was like a dream.

A technicoloured rainforest dreaming with chunky wrought iron seats,

a chair, dangly shells

and driftwood creations all twisted and twisting,

(hung from gold-plated fishing line).

A corroboree

of trinkets for our fair tourists. Opals and artist prints

priced at over $28

thousand dollars! Too rich for this hippie and the majority of the locals I imagine.

Still, I managed to find

my way to the old market,

find a churro place that served a cheap eggs bene.

I stipulated

I didn’t want snottie egg whites to no avail.

I cried writing my poem, ‘the Mummers Dance’.

I secretly wished someone would magically notice my fragmented aura,

and offer my broken arse a foot rub

or a clearing energy

but it never came. Hippies are broker than me, mostly.

I changed my mind several times, ending up

back at the car and $21 dollars poorer.

I looked at my bloodshot eyes in the visor mirror,

wondering if I could get away without being seen.

I found my way back,

and sat in the car while they finished up for another two hours.

It wasn’t so bad,

chatting to my Karma in between clenched cheeks, kicking myself for a loo.

I stripped off

all my clothes when I got home and washed myself clean.

I’m still spread-eagled on the bed as we speak.
© Copyright 2018, Jodine Derena Butler & Poetry Out West. All Rights Reserved

Fucking Curlews

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The Curlews

are at it again,

raping

my subconscious

dreams,

reaching in to amplify

frustration, chorused

high

pitched

screams;

resonances, having their

wanton way

while I jerk

upright,

ears jolted into present

tense,

strangle-choke hold

on reality,

biting down on

tongues &

sticky beaks,

gang-banging an alarm

clock

choosing to snooze

or lose,

passion dying a savage

kind of pseudo

death,

figments of my

imagination; bent

over the

bed.

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

Do You See What I See?

Graffiti at Rex Burger Bar, Cairns, Australia

A city scape.

Lovers embrace.

The setting sun.

Water.

Reflections of a distant ship on the horizon.

Windows

and doors;

rooves, roads and

glistening alley ways,

streetlights, pavements, bricks and gutters

all seeming to drain.

An abyss.

Underground taverns, sewers and stormwater rivers.

Steps.

Tunnels and trams – passengers obscured behind frosty glass.

Rain and wind, dripping

drops and lines.

Hurried footsteps.

Coats,

and umbrellas.

*

Memories of Melbourne in winter.

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

Awkward

Lady Jane’s Ashcat

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

1.

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.

2.

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.

3.

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.

4.

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.

5.

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.

6. 

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.

7.  

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.

8.

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.

9. 

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. 

10.

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

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

Nest

Unicorns & Rainbows

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

1.

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. 

2. 

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.

3.

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.

4.

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!

5.

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

Identity

Hobnobbing

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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

Copper Carries a Gun

He wants to be a copper, so he can carry a gun

In public where everyone can see, the man

He wants to be a copper, so he can shoot people

Pass the buck onto a badge

He wants to join the boys club, on the right side of the fence

He wants to be a copper, so he can bludgeon you all to death

/

With a smile on his face, masking his distaste 

Joking in the watchhouse, hiding his disgrace

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

Gold Coast Whistleblower

Police Body Cameras Rarely Used

Rogue Cops

Dormant

Murder & Mayhem

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I’m not preaching
But I am being true to

My self. There is
Murder and mayhem.

I asked for it. I asked
For learning,

Mourning views
At the ocean

Tasman Sea side, beside
my de-railed train.

Smart. Taking stock
Taking measures.

Working it all out
Through trial

And error’s; Finding pride
Empowering

*

Fuck mainstream
Stigmata up the arse!

I say. In the carnage,
In the afterglow

Of my Fukashima.
My sub-woofers’ set

To subvert you
From your dissonance

Apathy
Hatred

Denial there is a war. I choose
Resistance

And by God –
You will remember!

Fuck the world
For me

Lest We Forget

Peter Dutton

© Copyright 2016, Jodine Derena Butler. ‘Poetry Out West’, All Rights Reserved

Infuse

Purple Rain

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My father, Malcolm Roy Ball, Vietnam 1967-1970

War Torn

our world is being torn apart
I threaten conflicted outbursts
in remembrance of him
and them

*

My great grandfather’s fought in WWI
My grandfather’s in WWII
My father in Vietnam

He protests in his own way
no purple reign on his parade
or Prince
to overshadow
dvd’s re running over blue
and red clashes – violent flashes
of memory
in black and white snapshots
of the fallen
and homeward bound comrades
of Malaya and Singapora

They were shafted
in one way or another
left to ponder life
and death
still

images Napoleon could not reconcile
nor the English continue to suppress

I don’t think he will ever forget.

‘See that guy there?
He had his arm blown off
and that one hung himself
a couple of years ago’

His way of keeping it real
as much as for him
as for us, who are held captive
in his momentum

They were drenched in Orange, Red
and Yellow agents
descendants of a Purple rain
then left to fend for themselves
amidst a wrath and fury
one can only call ignorance
blinded by a politically correct
notion of compassion

They were only nineteen
and nothing compares to youthful
enthusiasm; to be not unlike
their forefathers

Teenagers today
get their psychedelic fix
whining and dining on a scourge
that has become a pandemic –
a demonic frenzy
of self indulgent arrogance!

Mary-Jane makes
a Nightingale of pain

Today is ANZAC Day
I am both proud and sad

I have a legacy to uphold
and if it weren’t for those men
and women who experienced trauma
I would not have known complex PTSD
or to let my mind take me
to a battlefield of my own design

In remembrance of them
and parts of my self
lost forever,
I like the eulogy of
walking in the purple rain

Lest We Forget

© Copyright 2016, Jodine Derena Butler. ‘Poetry Out West’, All Rights Reserved

Prince, Street Art Eulogy

Uniform