Astral Dissociation & the Unattainable Cryogenic Pathway to the Stars

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“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!

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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

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Monkey Man

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“Everybodies doing some sort of haberdashery; feathered costumes & hand sewn labours of love” JD Butler

My monkey man swings through the tunes, 1920’s in psychedelic vibes, moving through astral bodies & trombones, his strumpets shaking everything they’ve got; getting on up, you getting down with the sickness while my Cheshire lights up the room like Charleston

Everybodies doing some sort of haberdashery; feathered costumes & hand sewn labours of love, more broken heart’s than I care to imagine, myself weaving supersystems & stars into eternity while you belt out Orions tune like a demon possessed!

Even Club Reservoir served more frivolity than a mere gin & tonic this time; our Queen having a place to shine, the turquoise scene in sequins wore more hearts than Bombays’ Sapphire – our grand parade my finale, coming home on a backbeat 

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You may as well be a gay icon my pretty, but it aint got no swing & I hate myself for being so mean to you


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

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