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 and I’ll show you how it’s done properly!

*

I’m from New Zealand and 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 and it still makes no sense; forbidden cliché sneaks up like a sniper in a sonnet.

What matters, is that poetry is devoid of faux pars and 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 and dying stereocilia hairs. Ears, to those who need further clarification, while my advanced alien brain sits within a universe only 2% of the world’s population can grasp.

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

/

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

We, are merely stepping stones to someone else’s grandiose glory. Poverty and 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 and love with his proverbial nose shoved up both of their arse’s.

Who gives a fuck anyway? This makes no sense to anyone at all 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 and that makes me an evil genius.

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

Conversant

How long is a piece of government red tape?

How long is a piece of government red tape?

As long as the Centrelink line down the street. Peasants line up hoping a millionaire hands out $100 bills.

As long as the ATO or MyGov queue — hours spent on the phone with nothing to do, except go insane.

As long as the musical loop designed to hypnotize prepares us to jump through some pretty big hoops.

As long as essential services exclude small businesses whose livelihood depends on everyday life for the poor.

As long as poverty remains below the imaginary line and we consume all the food after the due date.

As long as our bank balances stay in the black, we won’t be charged exorbitant fees for money we can’t make — a pseudo handshake pushing the mortgage back.

As long as we are compliant, stay at home and watch TV and become brainwashed into depression and anxiety.

As long as we stay in touch with the masses of faux friends on social media, breaking community standards in a double blind experiment.

As long as our health needs are met by big pharma and our garden grows GE/GM food designed to fail.

As long as we keep posting photos, videos and shit shows with dildos online, to paint a picture of relief.

In short, go off-grid and make your very existence an act of rebellion for as long as your divinity refuses to be manipulated.

The Last Custer Fuck

Move over Corona!

You’d have to be bloody blind to believe Corvid19 is the dreaded lurgi: it’s only the common cold repackaged into the dreaded flu, commandeered to implement the first wave of a Globalist attack, the last Custer fuck for the dying imperialistic dream.

The bourgeois are creaming themselves for the last time, while socialism rises like a rogue wave revolting in it’s wake, leaving a trail of destruction in search of the snake – waiting for a drum roll and the last head to fall.

30,000 U.S. troops on the march in time to strategically coincide, singing My Corona and Uncanny Boy and the world follows the Pied Piper like a zombie hoard to a mass genocide. No masks. No suits.

The West is going down, but not without one final autoerotic spasm: a shit storm the size of China forcing everyone into the foetal position, while the banks foreclose with an enema.

Me?

I’m going to hedge my bets on the 1993, season 4, episode 21 of The Simpsons, and buy a bottle of Dettol and wipe the whole slate clean!

If I could do a Weinstein or an Epstein and get away with it, I’d want to open my mouth like Greta Thunberg and renegotiate a ‘Rommel Death’ with a slice of pizza but all the shaming I’ll leave to the Vatican, royalty, past presidents and Hollywood’s boulevard of broken dreams, to remind me I am merely a conspiracy theorist with a vivid imagination, trying to live a pipe dream.

The Simpsons, Season 4, Episode 21 predicts Corona Virus

Dettol Kills Coronavirus

New World Order, David Icke

© Copyright 2020, Jodine Derena Butler & Poetry Out West. All Rights Reserved

M M M My Corona

Corona Virus

My Corona

My Corona

Ooh my little dirty one, dirty one

When ya gonna give me that germ, Corona?

Ooh ya make my nose run, my nose run

Got it sliding down my lip line, Corona

Always blow my nose, wash my hands, do it all again

My, my, my, ay, ay, whoa!

M-m-m-my Corona

Come a little closer, huh, ah, will ya, huh

Close enough to give you my germs, Corona

Keeping it a mystery, conspiracy

Dripping from the edge of my eyes, Corona

Always blow my nose, wash my hands, do it all again

Never gonna stop, give it up, such a dirty germ

My, my, my, ay, ay, whoa!

M-m-m-my Corona

M-m-m-my Corona

My, my, my, my, my, my

My Corona

When ya gonna give it to me, give it to me

It’s just a matter of time

Corona

My Sharona by The Knack

© Copyright 2020, Jodine Derena Butler & Poetry Out West. All Rights Reserved

Remembrance

They were so young and

no one really knew them

before they

fell.

Every now and again

bones of remains

find their way to the surface

in some raggedy

field in France

or Turkey.

They DNA test,

pick through leftovers

hiding in a ribcage –

dog tags

and old photographs,

still found in remarkable

condition.

They contact any last

known relatives,

mark a grave and

plant flowers to

remember a time that

refuses to

die.

*

It was all just government

sanctioned genocide,

on both sides.

Lest We Forget.

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

Famous Last Words

In the event of an imminent thermonuclear war, all we can do is watch,

& wait.

We wait for the sun to rise in the East – Putin, putting on the ritz, while the West opens their vintage wardrobe & rummages through threadbare tassles, choking on clouds of faux fur.

We, watch & wait

witnessing White Helmets filming fake news, staging fake attacks, doing God’s dirty work not dissimilar to Custer’s last stand.

Still, we watch

& wait,

while royalty fight over the spoils; children picking bones apart, the rise of Zion (Judas) & the damnation of Mother Mary

respectfully, although they both feed off one another like zombies in a blood bath.

Watching & waiting,

for the irony of it all to become clear. The penultimate finale – being surrounded by the proverbial white light.

Fucking bastards!

The last sun ever to set in the West, leaving everything we knew behind.

A spectacular sunset, followed closely by a long, dark, cold, post apocalyptic nightmare.

*

I for one, watch

scanning the horizon willing it to rain,

waiting

for a new dawn.
© Copyright 2018, Jodine Derena Butler & Poetry Out West. All Rights Reserved

Power

Disrupt