I’m only as good as my last poem, and that sucked a kumara.
So, why do I care what some hua thinks about me?
I’d rather kia kaha and hīkoi tóku mahi.
To stand strong and walk the talk.
It is what it is.
Ka kité ano apopo kurī.
© Copyright 2020, Poetry Out West, Jodine Derena Butler. All rights reserved
I’m not that kind of girl.
I am that kind of girl.
I can separate work and love.
I can’t separate work and love.
I know what I want.
I don’t know what I want.
Laughter and light.
Sadness and dark.
I don’t like one night stands.
I could like one night stands.
My heart is not for sale.
My heart is open for business.
I’m not a fuck buddy.
I could be a fuck buddy.
I am so much more.
I am all there is.
I want to be number one.
I don’t want to mean that much.
So I can learn to trust.
So I will never learn.
I don’t want to be second best.
I want to be what you want me to be.
I am worthy of love.
I am unworthy of love.
I want to be desired.
I don’t want to be desired.
I am a loving woman.
I am incapable of love.
I’m not an after-hours opportunity.
I am open all hours.
My time is precious.
My time is wasted.
I want to feel like I belong.
I don’t want to be here.
Not at someone’s beck and call.
On someone’s speed dial.
I’m not available for players.
I am available for everyone.
I have integrity.
I am immoral.
I want a partnership.
I don’t want a relationship.
Equality and compromise.
Selfishness and control.
I don’t want to feel alone.
I feel alone.
With or without.
Without or with.
I want to be independent.
I am co-dependent.
Choose my own lane.
Follow the leader.
I don’t want to settle.
I settle for much less.
When I deserve the best.
I don’t deserve any better.
I want to feel secure.
I feel trapped.
Relax and unwind.
Wound up like a spring.
I’m not someone’s distraction.
I am someone’s excuse.
Present not present.
Affect not effect.
I want to be happy.
I don’t want to feel good.
Spontaneously combust.
Slowly decay.
I don’t want to cry.
I want to smile.
No more tears for fears.
Lots of laughs and hope.
I want to be loved.
I am unloveable.
Expand my horizon.
Stay locked away.
I don’t want to be used.
I am a user.
I want a place to call ours.
I like my own space.
I can’t change who I am.
I could change if I wanted to.
I want it all.
I don’t want anything.
I am the kind of girl you take home.
I’m not the kind of girl you take home.
© Copyright 2020, Poetry Out West, Jodine Derena Butler. All rights reserved
She fell for him.
She learned to feel ashamed.
Feelings; the dirty word for love, left her sitting in the dark on my balcony, stubbed out like a cigarette butt.
He had to go.
He learned to feel afraid.
Feelings; the Venus Flytrap of love, left him closing the door to my apartment, shut down like a stubborn ass mule.
Still.
Denial stole like a thief.
Feelings; think it would be easier to maintain a smile, but neither of them like bullshit or manipulation or lies.
…and I was starting to feel unencumbered until you came along, upping the anti with your sweet smile, ruining my bed, creating an arrhythmia of anomalies in my insulated penthouse.
…and I can see the headlights up ahead in the distance – high beams dip, then cut a trail through the darkness mimicking my lashes for you.
…and I think I’m ready? I think not, decide to ease back on the throttle; engine brake scream rebounding somewhere around midnight.
…and he says he’s not sure, but he wants to be King of the Mountain, the first to reach the top like Brock but without the fanfare.
…and his heart is in her hands. Headphones tapping out instructions driving himself around the bend while I wrestle with red eye and a juxtaposed stick/column shift.
…and we both get what we want. Safety nets and a pit crew who know the ropes better than any nightmare script or Greg Murphy wannabe.
…and all at once I become redundant. I can no longer see the warning signs and cats eyes through my windshield, except for tail lights.
…and you are leaving me behind. It’s time to open the windows and turn up Green Day and contemplate the waiting unknown. “Rage and love, the story of my life”.
© Copyright 2020, Poetry Out West, Jodine Derena Butler Files. All rights reserved
Green Day ‘Are We The Waiting’ YouTube
The doorbell rings one point five metres away.
Jack, steps back and waits, his head bowed in deference. A shudder circulates through his body and returns to his groin where his pathetic little worm jerks awake momentarily before it retreats, almost disappearing.
Domina, hazmat suit fitted, respirator adjusted and hands fully gloved, makes one final survey of her apartment noting everything in it’s rightful place before opening the door.
‘I see you followed my directions correctly, eventually’, she quipped.
‘Place your shoes in the bucket and strip’.
Her deadpan face and hardened stare conveying a don’t-fuck-with-me stance.
Domina’s new fetish was playing out like a Hunger Games episode: full lockdown, curfew and quarantine rules apply.
‘Follow me’, she commanded, leading the way to the bathroom.
‘Shower, put on the hazmat suit and mask and come into my den’.
Jack does as he is told, noticing the hairs on his arms and neck bristle and shrink back as the icy air-conditioning slaps his skin.
He’d been fantasizing about this day, ever since the first wave of Coronavirus (Corvid 19) swept across Europe, with Italy almost decimated in it’s wake.
It reminded him of his mortality, the beck and whim of governments and George Orwell’s 1984 dystopian nightmare coming into fruition. It made him feel alive, on the contrary, gave him a reason to live out his last days letting go of the old ways, going out on his terms.
Domina was a survivor. Gone were the days of luxurious 24 hour bookings, champagne and wads of cash. It was adapt or die slowly in her isolation, knowing her body wouldn’t be found for weeks.
These were the days of demeaning quickies and blow n’ go’s for a fraction of the price and the odd apocalypse fantasy that gave her just enough extra to remember how she once felt secure. Now, she controlled her working environment to suit and insisted on safety protocol.
It didn’t preclude the risk of contracting the disease, but it was harm minimised. What choice did she have? She had arrived in Australia post Iraq War and her protected immigration status had been drastically diminished, as would her bank balance be in the not-so-distant future if she didn’t find a way to make the most of a shit situation.
Jack looked at himself in the mirror, putting on his mask. He was reduced to an anonymous automaton. Nameless, faceless and nothing more than a number in a system designed to suck every last drop of humanity from his wretched soul, if he even had one. A nobody. A pitiful excuse for a human being. He wanted to feel the humiliation of his meaningless existence played out one last excruciating time.
Domina watched her pain slut enter and ordered him to get on all fours on the bed. She picked up a 1 metre length of flexible plastic pipe and gave him six of the best in quick, hard succession.
/ / / / / /
Jack felt the weight of the whole world reign down. Searing pain shot through him and waves rippled along the length of his flacid cock awakening from it’s morbid slumber to stand at attention. It was all he could do to stop from crying out.
Jack knew he would fail, miserably and so did she.
© Copyright 2020, Jodine Derena Butler & Poetry Out West. All Rights Reserved
Those days are over and my ❤️ is resigned.
Too many complications leave me questioning why.
I don’t bother putting my best foot forward.
I’d rather you saw me at my worst and most awkward.
There’s no point in trying anymore to be honest.
I’m too fucking angry to build rapport and flourish.
I don’t want a partner, I’m far too fucked up.
Finding friends is a challenge but that’s good enough.
You can lay it on thick and treat me sublime.
But I’m still gonna take myself home every night.
You just might really be the best thing for me.
But I’m too fucking burnt to begin to believe.
I’d rather push you away and self sabotage.
Than risk trusting you will be, who you say you are.
It’s wholly unfortunate and totally sad.
But I’ve had enough and it was pretty bad.
I like being independent, funky and fun.
I’m afraid to feel beautiful, desired and loved.
I feel myself falling and losing control.
And I fucking hate how it makes me withdraw.
But that’s how it is and for whatever it’s worth.
I think you’re ok but I’m still not so sure.
I don’t know what to do or even if I can try.
Regression takes me right back to being a child.
Then I reflect and feel all ashamed.
Knowing I’m being judged by myself and I blame.
I can feel the anxiety building up inside.
Leave me open, exposed and I lose my mind.
I’m completely imperfect, contemptible and flawed.
Selfish, self righteous and utterly scorned.
I don’t have what it takes to surrender my ❤️.
So let’s call it a day, while we can remember to laugh.
© Copyright 2020, Jodine Derena Butler & Poetry Out West. All Rights Reserved
1.
Am I a feminist?
I make the fantasy real for him, giving up parts of myself –
My look
My mind
My body
My heart.
Pieces of me, served up over silver platitudes,
three course meals
and French champagne.
2.
Malleable breasts and tight buttocks
reclaim their complimentary one half of the whole
reality
filling holes in Psyche every time she is alone.
Separate and connected,
happy and unremarkable
half truths, open to anyone who will listen.
3.
In her deepest recesses, she is compartmentalised – a waif, aloof.
Dissociation
learned to leave a long time ago, doing only what they wanted to make them happier
for the two of us.
A tragedy, waiting for a fairy tale ending that doesn’t involve
the death of Eros.
Instead she paints pictures that never quite get finished –
My pencils
My paints
My inks
My pastel chalks
covered in charcoal dust fingerprints,
scared of letting go.
4.
She still held on
to dreams
of Volkswagon beetles,
Austin land crabs,
Holden utes and XD Falcon
panel van’s reinforced with 6ml steel plates
pink stickered on the side of the road.
5.
I say goodbye to all the abusers –
My family
My friends
My lovers
My colleagues.
Self care now cloistered in her abandon while you watch,
published one day by some back shed press, captioned
‘Clichèd-Poet-Ends-It-All’
because forfeiture has no shame.
She was happier then
and then she died,
turning grey like her foibles and colourless lines.
6.
Am I a feminist?
© Copyright 2019, Jodine Derena Butler & Poetry Out West. All Rights Reserved
Jamie Fraser.
The highlander of my wet dreams &
the epitome of Scottish manhood – the rise
of the Jacobite & the battle of Colloden,
ending it all.
/
That fiery red head fuels my desire, transporting me to Lallybroch.
I am the Lady Broch Tuarach arching her thawed back,
purring like a cat; her cream licked to perfection.
Jealous.
Her secret coveted, breathing pure unadulterated sex.
I stretch back and close my eyes, snatch
images of her glory box at the foot of my bed
replaying soundbytes,
over
and over,
running my fingers through locks,
strumming a frantic tune,
finding their way through crevices & folds; my highland landscape.
Such pleasure!
Tartan wool & kilt,
an 18th century romp & a battle for the heart.
/
But as always, English tyranny is never far from the scene.
Too many #Metoo moments and brutality stops everything in its tracks.
© Copyright 2018, Jodine Derena Butler & Poetry Out West. All Rights Reserved
I love you.
I love that you’re mine.
I love the way you light up a room with your presence and my heart.
I love the way you joyously cook for me and our friends; laughter combusting into spontaneous abundance.
I love the way you laugh and giggle and play the fool, running around the room screaming like a freaking fruit, with Snoop.
I love that you do your best with everything and everyone, everytime.
I love that your heart only wants to do good and focus on the future.
I love how you think positively about all of our obstacles and we work together to solve them.
I love your resilience and strength of character, even when times get tough – you find a way.
I love the way your face lights up when you plan a party, design a flyer and work the promo.
I love the way you DJ – making me and everybody dance, with huge smiles on our dials.
I love to see you in your costumes and watch you come alive.
I love seeing the happiness on your face when you achieve the almost impossible, frequently.
I love watching your facial expressions and that passionate rocking and rolling you do on your chair, punching your hands in the air, to your favourite songs.
I love the way you make me feel, holding my hand and casually putting your arm around me, no matter where we are.
I love how you give me a wake-me-up-call most mornings, and I feel your desire pressing against me.
I love the way you slip, and fall between my legs with that naughty, cheeky giggle.
I love the way you whisper in my ear and tell me I’m sexy and beautiful and how much you want me.
I love it when you kiss me for no reason.
I love your sexy swagger and smouldering eyes.
I love the way you make me Chai in the mornings, and/or a cigarette and we slowly wake up together.
I love watching you shine.
*
On any given day, you give yourself to me in all your authenticity, with love.
You are the most awesome, amazing, talented, sexy, loveable man I have ever had the pleasure to meet and call mine.
I dont know how long I’ve got you for, but the romantic in me hope’s you put a hippie ring on it and we mooch on into the future, forever.
© Copyright 2018, Jodine Derena Butler & Poetry Out West. All Rights Reserved
“I think we’ve been put through the emotional wringer and there are only fraying threads left of the tapestry we once sewed together” JD Butler
Just like me to need a pacifier when the going gets tough but
it’s not all about me.
You’ve changed – maybe we’ve both changed, but not for the better. You used to care if I cried but
not any more.
I guess you’re strung out, over-worked, under-paid, under-sexed and looking for a way out in your Red Dead Redemption II,
outback adventure.
Maybe you also feel trapped? What if I left, left the house for you to rent? I can go anywhere to live
and start again.
Sydney, Melbourne, Perth perhaps. 6 months here, 6 months there (in New Zealand). Reinventing myself
is what I’m good at.
Jezabel is never too far away for me to find a way to survive. She never leaves me or changes. I can count on her
to do the right thing.
I’ll miss you. Everything about you. How wonderfully beautiful you are with your deep dark brown eyes. You are talented, loving and rich beyond anything resembling money.
I consider
myself blessed.
It’s time I moved on. I’ve reached a point where I don’t think we can offer each other the best part of ourselves any more. I think I hold you back from your true potential.
I think you resent not seeing your friends as often as you would like – cultivate those
friendships and opportunities.
I think you would feel better with money in your own pocket. I want to see you happier, less frustrated,
less aloof and less distracted.
When I met you, you were larger than life, full of happiness, generosity, love. You were loyal to me.
I think we’ve been put through the emotional wringer and there are only fraying threads left of the tapestry
we once sewed together.
I’m distressed. I’m trying to preserve the last of my sanity in order, to survive.
I’m concerned. I want to give you as much as I can for you to feel secure. You’ve worked hard and
I have no intention of ruining you.
I’m not like my ex because I love you – he never did.
I dont want to see you cry, or curl up and die inside, but I still choose
to run again this time.
© Copyright 2018, Jodine Derena Butler & Poetry Out West. All Rights Reserved
I leave the room for one second
and I come back to see your cock slamming into her.
You definitely weren’t thinking about me. Selfish, greedy pig!
To make things worse.
You defended her feeble excuses, tried to twist it around and make it my fault, then you left – with her.
Somehow I’m a user. A psychopath with no friends? Go figure.
You were such a disappointment. Still are.
I see your cock inside her, thrusting hard and I can’t bare to touch you or trust.
Betrayal was never a part of us or what we had. ‘I hope you’re happy now’, was another thing you said.
It’s a waiting game from here on in, till we say goodbye and start again.
It was over before it began really. I knew deep down already, you were just too good to be true. Part of me kept hoping but it’s too late for me now.
I’ll do all my grieving before we say goodbye, so I dont have to think about you then. It won’t be pleasant either, but I’ll take what I can get.
I’ll still wish you the best but I’ll never go there again.
© Copyright 2018, Jodine Derena Butler & Poetry Out West. All Rights Reserved
Photo by JD Butler
1.
Your love for me has already gone
& you don’t even know it.
I lie awake, tensing & untensing, reminding myself to breathe.
Numb.
I don’t remember what it feels like to be loved, lying next to you, rubbing your shoulders, listening to your faux sleep or nightmarish fits & starts.
I only ask you dont take my friends with you.
What little I have left that teeters on that ledge where I start again & you leave off.
Do you know what colour my eyes are? Know their depths & greys?
Do you know what keeps you close & yet so far away?
I don’t understand.
You give me so little to hold on to, I feel invisable but you seem to think the world owes you a favour & you’re mine.
I cease to exist.
I refuse to live.
I’ll take the scraps like a good little bitch – watch & wait for the next tasty morsel to fall onto the floor.
If this is what you need, I have no choice but to accept.
Throw me a bone every once in a while, when you remember not to forget.
2.
I’m being selfish.
You love me with all your heart. You’re working your skinny white arse off for me, for us & I’ve got you all wrong.
You can see into the future that promises money, hotel rooms, boats, fine wine & women but didn’t you already piss that up against the wall?
I’m jaded.
Am I really what you want, tucked away in the back of suburbia, barefoot, looking like a dyke in my short-shorts & singlet?
Age wearing me down where I just want peace.
I dont want to dance or drink or muck around with you knowing there’s nothing in it for me.
Oh but there is?
Did it only just dawn on you that what’s mine is mine & you either choose to accept this mission or it will self destruct in 5, 4, 3…
What have you got to worry about anyway? You can make money, friends, music anywhere.
Well I’m 50, a woman, unemployed, questionably sane & dubiously employable & up to my eyeballs in debt.
My options are limited & guess what – you’re it!
You don’t believe in marriage & I concur. You believe in hard work in love but no cigar?
Why do it all at all if you get nothing out of it?
Why are you here complaining?
What the fuck do you want from me, if this is not a game?
3.
I’m not sure I know exactly what I’m in for.
© Copyright 2018, Jodine Derena Butler & Poetry Out West. All Rights Reserved
Desire.
Manifest in music, love, people and places.
A heart-throbbing beat to a rhythm only Demeter knows, her secrets etched into her bones. Intricate carvings honed into marrow, and stem cells multiply like a plague of disgruntled wasps.
Anger.
That sudden rush of indignation, followed by a concoction of vengeance and vindication – abdication and a refusal to surrender. Hades infiltrates Persephone, her abduction an embodiment of everything war, consumed in his indifference.
People.
All that is love and all that is hate, two halves of the same coin and no one escapes joy, ecstasy, grief and pain. You can run but you can’t hide – everyone has to pay Charon to get into the after life.
Temperance.
Biting tongues, letting go, being the better person, swallowing those hard lumps and walking away relatively unscathed by comparison. There will always be someone who offends and someone who is offended. Which came first?
Balance.
Good and bad, black and white, up and down, left or right. Choices and free will all come at a cost. Pros and cons, rights and wrongs; there is only compromise, but that middle ground remains as grey as the ghost it inhabits. A visceral, haunting entity.
Atonement.
As elusive as the Holy Grail, hidden inside Pandoras Box in a chapel somewhere in Africa. Peace is not what Hades is about, his warmongering lust for grandiose self-entitlement takes no prisoners. Still, Zeus brokered a deal for his part in Demeters wrath and Persephones demise.
Death
and rebirth – the Fates will have their way and so the cycle continues.
© Copyright 2018, Jodine Derena Butler & Poetry Out West. All Rights Reserved
It’s a hard-wired
ephemeral life
I lead.
Half of me yearning.
Half of me mourning.
Desire
for a quick death,
overcome by the
monotonous grind;
clandestine,
lead – dragging
it’s heels inching
forever forward
toward an unremarkable
destination.
Except for
that constant ache.
A low throb
moaning between my
legs,
rising up & into
my belly, disturbing
the dying butterflies
there.
Oh to be blindfolded!
Black out spread eagled,
all solidified reminders,
teased to know pleasure
for pleasures sake.
Played
like an object
of your imagination
& devoured
like a ripe peach!
I’m too old
for this shit,
she thinks, wanting
to just be loved.
No out-back
salt lakes to be found.
Slip streams
giving way
to an avalanche
in a classical black
& white silent movie.
It’s all too much
to take in,
the depravity
of age & of consent.
Too old, yet
too young to let
things slide.
Still, the tears come,
let loose
to chide & deride
my feminine critique –
that contemptible self
loathing that likes
to sink her
teeth in. Perhaps,
a concoction of
big pharma
is required
to keep her pliable?
Heart
broken,
wanting for nothing
but life’s
simple pleasures
to sweep her
off her feet,
lead her into
an ecstasy of wanton
abandonment.
Just one moment
to still the voices
& discard reality.
© Copyright 2018, Jodine Derena Butler & Poetry Out West. All Rights Reserved
Photographer: Scott Wilcox, Fuzion Photography, 2017
“…fine tuning the in-between of harmony; hearts, earth & sky” JD Butler
Maximòn,
the epitome of balance:
patience & frustration,
softly spoken & vehement.
Ritual billowing, vaping
new life
into old lungs,
filtering
pure tobacco into undulating balls of steam.
His stage is an altar.
We dance, cleansing much more than our spirit,
fine tuning
the in-between
of harmony; hearts,
earth & sky.
Our effigy, enlightening the soul & keeping her secrets,
venerable in his wisdom.
Our Columbian overlord garnishes
the Mayan temple our grandfather’s bestowed.
Protective.
Upcycling shadows, illuminating the light –
breathing new life.
He is the embodiment of patronage & the people,
regenerating
health, crops, marriage, business, revenge & death.
Holding
our community together.
© Copyright 2018, Jodine Derena Butler & Poetry Out West. All Rights Reserved
The Daintree again,
eventually.
One more visit to Port Douglas & everything was shut!
For once, I didn’t feel
anything.
/
I never know if I’m going to see a cassowary,
or watch a ulysses flashing
cobalt blue wings
in the wood; my attention, caught off guard,
landing
on a branch or leaf – just out of
reach.
I hope for glimpses of colour
to blur my vision, invite me to follow that willow
like a wisp.
/
Steep curves in the road
climb &
descend &
slow down
for those shuddering bars strategically placed
becoming progressively more gnarly, closer
to paradise.
/
Lost.
Remembering chivalry – that warm endearing charm & seductive attention
that would set my seat aside, leaving me
to explore every crevice & fold.
For once, I didn’t feel
a thing.
/
Soldier crabs scurry into spherical holes dug deep into the sand, sidestepping that fine line; waves,
washing in & out
hiding those croc’s you know are just under the surface.
I dont bother scanning the rainforest for anything else
that moves.
I didn’t feel you there.
/
Braver than most – or foolish. I’m yet to decide.
I don’t remember butterflies.
© Copyright 2018, Jodine Derena Butler & Poetry Out West. All Rights Reserved
It’s going to hurt digging in, under my skin.
\
Trust. Pain.
Death before dishonour – the Cold War sits in Sylvia’s parlour,
pretending patience is a virtue. We all watch,
a slow burn, already warming the tips
of her lasciviously long
fingers,
licking at her lips.
/
She would rather shake you all off, than let loose another tirade,
another stone, another reason to beg
forgiveness.
Sabotage sinking to a new low.
\
Silvia’s far too unreasonable, although
she prefers irrational; madness defining her in the end. Hands
& feet securely strapped,
her mouth,
stuffed shut with gauze & gaffer tape.
No sign of life – metal bars
& padded cells
resembling reason.
/
Floral oriental lilies.
\
Shes always known how to let go.
© Copyright 2018, Jodine Derena Butler & Poetry Out West. All Rights Reserved
“Karma…she doesn’t rely on intel, cointel, black or psy ops of any kind” JD Butler
1.
Relationships,
are not all they’re cracked up to be.
They are like sabotaged roses; severed from stems,
rolling like heads,
to feel like
Oh!
/
I don’t know.
2.
Denial,
is like sleep walking, except star gazing in day dreams,
avoiding
a fourth kind encounter, shining a light beam on all our useless airs & graces.
Waking hours are left,
wanting.
3.
Karma’s, not any dirtier than her alter ego would suggest either.
At least she let’s you in,
ties you up,
then fucks you up the arse before she withdraws.
/
In her world, she doesn’t care.
She doesn’t rely on intel, cointel, black or psy ops of any kind,
in order to see past you & into the future.
To her, we are all space invaders that have the potential to devour.
4.
Russia, may be all over the West but Brainiac’s got the universe covered.
He sucks & fucks his way though world’s several times over – therefore, we won’t have a shit show in hell, by the time he gets here.
Putin’s already won his war anyway (the West is going down).
By the time you realise WTF just happened, that warm thermonuclear feeling you have between your legs –
will be soiling more than just your knickers.
5.
There is no infinity & beyond when relationships are run on denial.
© Copyright 2018, Jodine Derena Butler & Poetry Out West. All Rights Reserved
“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
“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
