In the depths
Of my despair, flawed
Imperfections serve only to pander to Delilah.
She is much too fast for freedom, too slow to let go.
She could never bring her self to Samson half arsed.
Her darkness tempers his desire
Cool, waters his deflated ego
And she, too far away from home
Floats like a lotus.
© Copyright 2020, Poetry Out West, Jodine Derena Butler. All rights reserved
You’re dead to me. I’m dead.
My mother with her snide, jealous perversion sticking her tongue down my husband’s throat.
Sick cunt
Shit cunt
My mother’s a fucked up, narcissistic shit cunt
and I’m a whore.
© Copyright 2020, Poetry Out West, Jodine Derena Butler. All rights reserved
Ms Necessity, negates a decision to go left or right, preferring to stay on course crash landing her way through one of those flourescent white barrier’s that sneaks up in your headlights, at the end of a long road.
She chooses to wipe herself out by launching into a paddock full of daisies, coming to a screaming halt in an old weeping willow tree where her mangled wreck, dangles in its branches like Mr Wesley’s Flying Ford Anglia.
She wouldn’t leave behind any skid marks if it could be helped.
Necessity cares about the beautiful blue patch of meanies & over-ripe blackberries that would otherwise be squelched into bruised crimson & clover – leaving a blight on an otherwise picturesque, if not comedic scene.
Of course Tragedy saw her coming & spotted the wreck a mile off, while in a trance somewhere in limbo. She has a way of turning up unexpected-like & departs just as quickly & you’ll always end up with a little scratch to remember her by.
There’s not much room for Tradegy & Necessity to co-exist. Both see peace as an oxymoron. The why’s and what for’s are an irrelevant waste of grey matter, but the writing has always been on the wall, if anyone cares to look (behind the iron curtain).
They’ll both lock me up given half the chance & if I wasn’t so tired I’d do it my bloody self & throw away the key!
All I can say, is that the medication better be good or I’ll be asking for a second opinion. Mr Brownstone seems a lot more enlightened than big pharma right about now & all I need to do is find a little entertainment on Torrent!
Tragedy, bless her, is still leaning toward oblivion while Necessity would prefer to quietly pass over without any fuss.
Now, she likes the idea of flying.
© Copyright 2018, Jodine Derena Butler & Poetry Out West. All Rights Reserved
Just get into the swing!
Do a little
hop, slide a little
side-step,
twist a little
twirl.
~
Go,
get carried
away
with the ebb &
flow,
lost
in the moment but
never
gone.
Fine timing a back
beat
into the future,
focussing on
movement,
rhythm &
sway.
No rhyme
or reason,
just have a good
night’s sleep.
© Copyright 2018, Jodine Derena Butler & Poetry Out West. All Rights Reserved
I feel so protected, now.
South London ethics infused with shades of Grand Caneria – a past life unbeknownst to me.
He has a bark.
A hard, sharp stabbing bark that pierces through my psyche, knocking the wind from my bellow, to think twice.
I do think twice,
biting my tongue knowing silence is way more effective than responding – remembering that feeble psychological brain I once knew.
Damson & plum jam on toast, the chew in between sips of instant coffee biding my time,
thinking.
My tongue would rather be sliding up, down & around that everwidening smile, knowing I have things to say that can wait
for now.
I don’t blame you any more than you don’t want to hear, twice reminded that I’ve been here before (same same
but different).
I’m not gnawing at my nails in vain, rather quietly contemplating what it would mean if I fail.
If we fail, I’ll take all the good I can get & never look back.
© Copyright 2018, Jodine Derena Butler & Poetry Out West. All Rights Reserved
“Who gives a fuck anyway? This makes no sense at all to anyone with amnesia” JD Butler
Give me a .50 calibre assault weapon & I’ll show you how it’s done properly!
*
I’m from New Zealand & 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 & it still makes no sense; forbidden clichès sneaking up like a sniper in a sonnet.
What matters, is that poetry is devoid of faux pars & 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 & dying stereocilia hairs. Ears, to those who need further clarification, while my advanced alien brain sits within a universe only the top 2% of the world’s population can grasp.
The bourgeoisie cream themselves over it, while they play with their pencil & sharpener.
/
Poetry is only for those with a university education – an English degree, followed by a Diploma in Counselling & a Master of Creative Writing (an advanced degree with Honours). A PhD means power has been attained & is now ready to weild.
We, are merely stepping stones to someone else’s grandiose glory. Poverty & 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 & love with his proverbial nose shoved up both of their arses.
Who gives a fuck anyway? This makes no sense at all to anyone 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 & that makes me
an evil genius.
© Copyright 2018, Jodine Derena Butler & Poetry Out West. All Rights Reserved
Finding feeling
My way under
Grounded
Red Double D’s
Facing forward – heading toward
Portobello Road
Where I think I’ll find a vintage coat?
Navigating steps, a labyrinth of
Shops
stalls
markets
and food
Except for the rude
Middle eastern Joseph I turned my back on
Walking first left then right
Following the sunshine – the Bello
Hot and cold, on standby
Off with his head!
/
The woolley cardigan I borrowed
Along with my confusing glasses
The ill-fitting jeans
Crazy, uncomfortable
Wishing I didn’t have big bloody blisters!
Very far from home; my bed covers pulled
The fan on full
Stumbling into the Earl of Lonsdale
Pub for a cider
Hiding in a corner ‘snug’
Made in the seventeen hundreds and
It seems fitting I would have to bend
Dwarves and buxom barmaids
Tourists and stranger’s alike
Peer out from under mead
Sly Lord’s eyed
/
I, need to gather my thoughts
Consider what it would mean to start
over
© Copyright 2017, Jodine Derena Butler & ‘Poetry Out West’, All Rights Reserved
