Sinking In

Let the water take us down

Sinking in

Under your skin

Amongst the blood & bone

Psyche,

Cocooned in the marrow & stem

Cells honeycomb;

A brittle, fragile hokey-pokey helix

Bittersweet & delicious.

To where the river runs red

Hades, scries a foothold & clings

To the matrices of you & I

Of our past lives & love.

Psyche, licking her lips

Offers herself to him

Desire sinks her teeth in

Biting off more than she can chew

& feeds on the canker & stench

Of death.

Let the water take us down

Hades, warming Psyche to ember

Psyche, tempering Hades to surrender

& all the essence of my being

Is holding space for you.

To wash us both clean

What the Water Gave Us

© Copyright 2020, Poetry Out West, Jodine Derena Butler. All rights reserved

Not That Kind

Madonna/Whore Complex

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

The Venus Flytrap of Love

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.

© Copyright 2020, Poetry Out West, Jodine Derena Butler. All rights reserved

Wide Awake Woke

I am a whirlwind of indignity

A seething wrath of maelstrom

I am the all-seeing probing eye

Calling out subterfuge and lies

I am the calm before the storm

The thunder and lightening excuse

I am the violent edge of reason

The force behind insanity’s truce.

I am the truth, the way and the light

Infiltrating your delusions of grandeur

I am the beacon warning lighthouse

Flashing morse code in the ether

I am my self inside all your drama

Calling it as I see it

I am beyond my years of sacrafice

Laying my heart to rest.

I am the Barron River snake

Carving my way through life

I am wide awake woke

And there’s no where you can hide

I am the foothold on a cliff

The finger spaces between

I am the carnal knowledge incumbent

Hell bent on escape.

I am a fire woman’s Psyche

A Goddess to the core

I am your Hades vengeance incarnate

With nothing left to lose

I am your Freddy Kruger nightmare

The Punch and Judy show

I am your juicy jezebel whore

Mary Magdalene halo.

© Copyright 2020, Poetry Out West, Jodine Derena Butler Files. All rights reserved

Mage Shadowban

I see right through everything you try to impress upon me.

My nose is already cut/off, my mask forever cast into the pantomime of the dead.

When I rise,

I won’t need you.

There are no wallflowers here,
just silent observers casing the joint.

My grandfather’s spyglass has a cracked lens — one of those monocled, steampunky brass edged gems that’s uncoordinated at best but it serves more than a purpose.

Without you, I fade into the background.

I am like a mage.

I draw you in, but you beckon me out from behind my crystal pillars dangling wads of money and a job offer that’s on hold.

I come baring more than just my breasts,

I am yours.

Till the thrill is gone.

I am in danger of succumbing to my own spell, rebounding long before

I am discarded,

when you’ve already moved on to Nightingales and page three nostalgia, my unnatural incantations losing their spark along the way.

Still, you make me question where I belong.

I stand in the orange sunset smoking a durry on my balcony, looking down from my lofty thoughts.

My high society, contemptible self-loathing boldly framing my red-hinged double revolving doors that would swing wider — if it weren’t for the sunstrike that has me

blind.

A spectral shade

of surreal light,

trapped by my own

shadowban.

I see right through everything you try to impress upon me.

My nose is already cut/off, my mask forever cast into the pantomime of the dead.

When I rise,

I won’t need you.

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

Am I A Feminist?

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

Ariadne & the Consecrated Man

It’s taken conciliatory surprise to remind Ariadne of her desires;

Her pending resignation of all things malodious and contrite.

Old crone bones proffer up a willingness to decay

Lay still, let mummified old sticks and stones settle in.

A labyrinth of bygones remind her of a well spring run dry

A summer of joy, cut short. The autumn equinox bears down

Bending boughs to straighten those willowy heart strings once and for all.

She feels the clew constrict, stretch the last of the wine —

The last dram of mortality’s mundane, quenching nothing in the end

But a lust for a life lost, rendering her a prisoner and one of Klimpt’s women

Peeling back the golden years in rebellion, a fight to the last breath.

Abandoned yule tides of December wax and wane

When all she wants are lilies, and to be crowned Queen of the Damned

To be held in the arms of a consecrated man.

Alas, winter brings sadness and loss, chaos organising

The last remaining gasp muted in surrender, a fish. One final beat

Forces remnants of hope to leave as gracefully as the slamming

Of a door / his melted wings and her angst roar!
© Copyright 2019, Jodine Derena Butler & Poetry Out West. All Rights Reserved

The Awkward Orchid

Image

1.

People are orchids; cunts in disguise, and my tongue is already licking their splendid protruding lips like schnapps.

I’ve behaved like an orchid before – all puffed up and pouty, making holier-than-thou statements before those dreadful chinese lanterns have me boxed in, their crude hypnotic swagger acting like a prayer.

People are indeed orchids, complete with parasites and annoying bitey insects that sting and suck their way into our folds like thrips; bugs spreading their shit everywhere.

But who cares?

Give me Derris Dust any day, thrips have no feelings and orchids are such selfish sluts!

How dare they open their sub-waxy petals and assault my precious beliefs, forcing me to question my disease!

How dare they splay those wanton colours around willy nilly, when I really want to rub their ruddy faces in it!

After all, too much free love can only encourage lust, can’t it?

Lanterns are a much more suitable display of proliferation. Pyrethrum perfume is so underrated, isn’t it?

Fertilizer certainly brings us all down to earth sooner or later.

2.

Get plucked orchid!

I try my very best not to behave like an orchid. I try even harder to walk away from those flowering displays of tall poppy syndromes, but they tease me.

I try not to react to orchids if I can help it, preferring to turn the other leaf however, like all flowering displays, it would seem that misandry is misplaced.

The stupidity of self serving dwarf hybrids is ridiculed by other orchids, who would rather still remain an orchid in full bloom.

Orchids are not perfect!

If orchids could project all my vindictive hatred towards other orchids, turning them all into a mere arrangement, I’d at least have a chance at self love.

Oh wait – I touch myself all the time!

What was I thinking? To hell with orchids having their own way, I prefer to deal with other orchid varieties whom feel cajoled into behaving like real orchids!

As far as I’m concerned, its your orchidy choice, not mine.

Same goes for feeling indignation when calla lilies become offended!

Life will always be a red hot poker if you let an orchid get to you.

Poor little victimy poor me lantern. I’m so plucking ‘offended’ by you – boo-fucking-hoo!

Heaven forbid I might have to consider taking responsibility for my own lustful thoughts!

3.

Never try to enlighten a lantern when they don’t believe they have been or are behaving like a plucked orchid!

They’ll end up sitting on you, pouring pyrethrum from a half empty cup all over your splendid bloom, convincing you that their pollen is justified.

Typical perpetrator behaviour with an overwhelming sense of entitlement.

I attract orchids like flies, never mind the thrips. I’m finally learning to recognise the subtle difference.

One sucks the life out of you, while the other annoys the fuck out of you!

4.

Of course I’m going to pick on you when all I hear are wasps!

I dont care if it wilts your stem! I dont care if it makes me the pair of secateurs for hurting your feelings!

I’ve picked, I’ve been plucked and I don’t accept cuts any more.


© Copyright 2019, Jodine Derena Butler & Poetry Out West. All Rights Reserved

Whore

Image

Clock app, I chime well.

The sheets are slithery crevices

Satin-lined, with serpent tongue poised to strike,

It is a meeting of the soul,

A shaft of light

Through cathedrals of stained glass.

Where you are safe,

Where there are no family heirlooms,

No dinner on the table, no lies.

Suave virile hips, the smirk of men

Glaze at her smoke

And I, in my honeyed plume,

Milk a gallon of amphibian seed.

To release

The roar of angst I swallow toads ~

Meat and three vege, a staple,

The ‘Elixir of Life’.

My mouth gags,

The mouth of Mary

When my accelerator touches the pan.

The giggle of my

Plastic features, my way of arching

Johns to rigors of trapeze

Lays on the charm, a gasp.

And it goes on and on, and on.

I shall remain a nymph. Old muscles

Strain like a bough and I

Blush like Betty Boop

Satisfied,

All the sighs of winter, fall

Offering up last seasons rosella

Tea to read.

© Copyright 2019, Jodine Derena Butler & Poetry Out West. All Rights Reserved

Appropriated from Sylvia Plath’s ‘Gigolo’, 29 January 1963, Collected Poems, 1981

Cora Pearl & Tinders Meat Market

Image

Tinder dating.

Balancing on that tight rope between modern meat markets, vintage marriage proposals and a continuum of taffeta excuses for those with no idea about couture.

Coffee date number two,

torn between a Trelise Cooper bustle or Collette Dinnigan trousers, opting for mid length K-mart culottes and flat shoes – quite sensible really.

Then he makes a move, casually stroking her genius arm while he takes a business call leaning back on his wing.

It’s an affront to Cora’s touch-starved senses colliding like electrons; Georgette raised speed bumps bristle with expectations.

Its awkward for a moment –

deciding weather to pirouette or sashay onto the dancefloor with some spurious home truths.

Ta da!

‘I used to be a sex worker’ she crowed, sipping on a nonchalant eyelash latte on the verge of treason ‘and if I decide to go back, you can’t stop me’.

Silence.

Ms Pearl takes another sip, the onslaught of ignorance threatening to tighten her whale bone corset breath, now held in contempt.

A standing ovation or white knuckled finale taking the bias edge out of contention, taking it all in.

See, she can’t see the point of another round of ruffles and rouge.

/

Spontaneous attraction hides in the shadows

of a cloak and dagger past life, frightened

by a mere unorthodox interlude.


© Copyright 2019, Jodine Derena Butler & Poetry Out West. All Rights Reserved

Behind the Door is a Metaphor

Image

Little Red Riding Hood wearing shoes, stepping through balancing on pins, holding on to handles in case the latch breaks and the garden gate swings shut, accidentally locking Goldilocks out while she’s peering through foggy windows vying for attention, except she’s standing on tiptoes wondering what went wrong wishing she was back behind a red door out of the cold, flying like Dorothy clicking her way upside down, looking around for a place called home behind a blue door, where fish peer out from holes in shipwrecks inside a fishtank looking outside into my world, wishing Ariel was a shark that ruled the universe with clown fish laughing behind closed doors ordering sushi, just so she could meet Sponge Bob and go out on a date in a restaurant behind a green door seated in a corner watching everyone stuff their faces on pork bones and rib cages smothered in red sauce that sticks to the side of her wicked stepmother’s face, picking breadcrumbs and gingerbread between crooked teeth, eyeing up the shoes hiding behind a wooden door in an attic where Cinderella keeps her mice, making it impossible for Alice to find the key to a parallel universe where her doppelganger is one of three fairies destined to raise Aurora into a raving lunatic behind bars, until a knight in shining armour sees her hair and hoists himself up into a flying machine, snatching Rapunzel before she ends up covered in thorns, talking to a teapot and candlestick waiting the hills to come alive, just so she can close the door and her eyes.
© Copyright 2019, Jodine Derena Butler & Poetry Out West. All Rights Reserved

Shibari Knot

My shadow

self

is tied up

in Shibari.

Pulled, twisted

tightened &

squeezed.

Oh yes & I go off

on tangents,

designed to resist

my body

fear.

My brain,

meanders

down

(thought)

streams.

Divorced, but not

before swinging

through

tree limbs,

gnarled roots &

tea leaves – leaving

my hands

tied.

My eyes

take

it all in

staring

in all the corners,

where my

shadow

likes to

lurk.

She comes

undone &

unravelled,

back

home to

herself.

Lighter, but

with a new

spring

in her

step.

© Copyright 2019, Jodine Derena Butler & Poetry Out West. All Rights Reserved

Outlander

Image

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

Indigo Girl

Left alone, thoughts ring and bells toll,

Clanging inside my brain; memories running down

Corridors, splitting off at the junction. Persephone – dead,

That wilted little wretch with amazing airs and graces,

Grating on the pickle of pain. Demeter with her blind eye,

Hades and his jeckyll juice Pomegranate wine

Infiltrating an indigo child holding her breath.

Mauve dug in, embedding her chariot rose

Heart to a stranger. Charon, larger than life

Roaming the dark halls, death casting shadows

Wherever he went. Survival weaving invisible

Threads; a silver road to nowhere, her woven makeshift

Sanctuary cocoon. It was Persephone. Alone in the darkness,

Warm amongst catacombs and the river Styx.

Charons lantern waving in the distance

Side to side, taking an age to dawn.

Here in the crawlspace of time, refuge

Settled in like mothballs and cobwebs

Swung between the skull and crossbones; A subterranean

Mosaic of Dante’s Inferno where prayer echoed off the walls

Falling, on deaf ears and forgiveness became a hopeless

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

11 Typical Unintentional Behaviors of Emotionally Hurt People

I Choose to Run

Image

“I think we’ve been put through the emotional wringer and there are only fraying threads left of the tapestry we once sewed togetherJD 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 don’t 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

Tag Team

Image

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

Most Days

Image

“I’m in my garden planting, weeding or harvesting.” JD Butler

1.

Most days I want to die.

My heart breaks

over the most

stupidest of things.

My thoughts tell me I am not

strong enough

pretty enough

skinny enough

feminine enough

kind enough

friendly enough

sexy enough

compassionate enough

caring enough or

rich enough.

My brain tells me I’m too

moody

angry

sad

depressed

anxious

ugly

scared

fragile

emotional

weak

unpredictable

unstable

flighty

and fickle.

My brain tells me to think

the worst of every situation, interpret every thing as an

attack

snide remark

slur

corner

lie

deception or

ulterior motive.

I really shouldn’t take things so personally.

Others think I’m too

Sexual

Slutty

Useing

Abusing

Needy and

Crazy.

I guess

that’s why he told me I have no friends.

Most days I can’t stand it any more.

I’m too much of every thing or not enough.

I wish I was never born.

/

I’m ok on a good day, but I struggle. Demons,

in my waking hours, have a go at me for every-little-thing that ever was.

How, do I continue to survive?

Most days, I just want to die.

2.

Some days I feel happy.

content

pleased

proud

relaxed

calm

and secure.

I’m in my garden planting, weeding or harvesting.

And I think about what else I want to do.

Paint

draw

read

make

sculpt

weld

and create.

Money holds me back so I continue watering the garden.

Some days I feel optimistic.

I am convinced I’m going to get that job,

find that financial independence,

not go back to sex work although I miss it terribly.

Some days I don’t think about

pain

loss

fear

humiliation

rejection

or torment.

I’m numb, but at least I’ve stopped

shaking in my boots,

jumping all over the place,

looking around every 5 fucking seconds

or wanting to run.

Some days I feel hope that I won’t

take my life

end up on the streets

be alone and lonely

have no friends

have no lover

or find love.

Whats wrong with me?

I live with trauma, fuck up daily and behave like a bitch –

and I dont think I can be fixed

sometimes.

Some days I’m OK.

I smile

laugh

joke

play

make love

not war.

I try not to let the voices win. I try to

bite my tongue

shut my mouth

hold back tears

try my best

please my man

and stop complaining.

I try not to wait for the end, although I push everyone away – my deluded saving grace

is more likely cutting off my nose, to spite my face.

Some days I think I will survive.

But most days, I still want to die.

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

A Mummers Dance: Demeters Descent into Hades

Image

What will become of her?

The three Fates furiously pull Demeters hair / dragging resistance, weaving fistfuls of slate grey strands into knots through gnarled fingers. She struggles to break free.

Their mummers puppet, refusing to stay a decision, deciding that nothing can be done that hasn’t been done before.

Demeter in her craven mind, reluctantly resigns & begins her inevitable descent into death / succubus airs sliding down around those slippery steps like a mortal wound.

What terrible unknown awaits?

Letting go, becoming a ghoulish nightmare / a back-lashing monologue of regret that terrifies her waking hours leaving nothing else to be desired.

Oh the fury!

How ill-equipped her gaze, stripped bare of stippled ends & brushed strokes / all hope is lost, perished in the long-black-abyss of eternal sleep.

She remembers Persephone, in her full bodied beauty & wails at the indignity of brittle bones & a peeling river of flesh falling from her ancient body, with every maudlin step.

Demeter stumbles. Trips. Her fall from grace crash landing at her own feet / anything is better than another mask, in the pantomime of lifes abomination.

She finally meets Persephones gaze / a ravaged maniacal stare, steady amongst the carnage of after-birth strewn all about her.

There is no escape.

It’s here her malicious appendages thrash / manipulating moans & pathetic misery, chaos finally falling on deaf ears.

If the end must come, make it swift!

/

A hard, fast jolt into the after-life, where the ambrosia of a ravaged soul is drained from existence / that rancid elixir of a life less loved, can finally be laid to rest

& lost for all eternity.
© Copyright 2018, Jodine Derena Butler & Poetry Out West. All Rights Reserved

Hard-wired

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,

dragging

it’s heels inching

forever forward

toward an unremarkable

destination.

Except for

that constant ache.

A low throb

moan 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!

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 young, yet

too old 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.

Heart

broken,

wanting for nothing

but life’s

simple pleasures

to sweep her

off her feet —

lead her into

an ecstasy of wanton

abandonment

for just one moment,

to still the voices

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

Nude

Fucking Curlews

Image

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