A Month of Bloody Sundays for a Soireè

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That bloody clock!

ticking away, oblivious

to the tension stretching

my larynx to breaking point,

reminding my throat

how fucking dry it is

without Vocalzone – my finger,

pointed up when she said

she’d bloody do it.

Rhiannon knew it was

a bit too much to expect

after her long hibernation,

but loved her never-the-less;

hopes, memories and failed dreams.

Sing.

Warm my little husky chops and

Put on a show, but no

it is not this day.

Falsetto minor slapped back

and bit me, packed up

and packed a fucking sad.

Portsmith Club won’t be looking for

quirky.

I’d need to practice

for a month of bloody Sunday’s

before Stevie Nicks invites me back

to her condo for a soireè.

I did her too,

I’ve done her a thousand times

belting out vibrato

in A minor.

Here I am ‘pick me, pick me’

I could sing,

I feel so lonely without her.

My happy place no more.

It’s like dying

a savage kind of

musical death and I’m so scared.

Who can be bothered with a

washed-out-has-been-old-girl

from New Zealand.

I’ll just stay at home

feel sorry for myself a bit more

and cry myself to sleep.

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

Do You See What I See?

Graffiti at Rex Burger Bar, Cairns, Australia

A city scape.

Lovers embrace.

The setting sun.

Water.

Reflections of a distant ship on the horizon.

Windows

and doors;

rooves, roads and

glistening alley ways,

streetlights, pavements, bricks and gutters

all seeming to drain.

An abyss.

Underground taverns, sewers and stormwater rivers.

Steps.

Tunnels and trams – passengers obscured behind frosty glass.

Rain and wind, dripping

drops and lines.

Hurried footsteps.

Coats,

and umbrellas.

*

Memories of Melbourne in winter.

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

Awkward

Lady Jane’s Ashcat

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“…his mantra postulating pleasure & someone slips up, spilling yet another cocktail” JD Butler

1.

Lady Jane breaks out into a smile, allowing her eyes to wander over Ashcat – watching play unfettered magnificently, staring at his beautiful body wanting, waiting for kisses & licks to parlay, his hands moving mountains.

2.

Ashcat, completely at home & grounded, giving; a generous lover of life & people (like she used to be before trauma showed her ugly), he takes the cake with no false pride – her ego aside.

He leaves her pinched – the tweaked kind (still not quite sure she made it out of purgatory), but all she can think about is decòr, finding that perfect vintage pattern, making bunting & a vendor box full of surprises.

3.

Lady Jane heal’s, while showing up under every stone who fake really are; womanizing, homophobic, racist, misogynist, hillbilly rednecks with mother complexes, she steer’s well clear.

Trust mistaking bogan’s for diamonds – fake faux for everything they’re worth (consciously unaware) & yet here he is authentic, laughter lines up between them & light sparks beam.

4.

Ashcat, full of life’s sugar & spice; saffron, baked Spanish cheesecake, sorbet & wine, swings 1920’s while Jane’s fat lady croon’s to wild cherries & Winehouse electro beats, ushering in new sensations where she doesn’t want to wipe that smirk from her face. 

He hands her the mic & confidence soars, roaring through the midnight tunes ecstatic. He breaks out into an albatross the moment she hits her groove, arms pushing & pulling – MC funky time grinds her way into heaven, deliriously happy.

5.

It’s been an age in-between gigs, bands & dance halls, where her voice belted out highs & low’s to crowds of private dancer’s & partners swigging on beers, peering through plumes of green smoke. Auckland, on any given weekend seven years ago.

A complete cellular cycle gone by, where she sold it all for a plane ticket & a ride on a rollercoaster at the Cairns Show – the only thrill worth repeating. Now, she rolls back the years side-stepping potholes & speed bumps, without checking out her rear view for crazy motherfuckers, riding up her arse.

6. 

A trip to Port with the top down blow’s the cobwebs, converting sea beans into tapas & something that blow’s her mind instead of arachnophobia (crab slider’s as close as it gets to eight legs). One brief unpleasant memory is replaced with a multitude of self soothing layers.

7.  

Circus hijink’s at the yacht club – neon hoola hoops, Lady Jane wearing a purple corset handing out lollies & buxom beauties swanning about fanning burlesque, a sea of legs two-stepping tuxedos, federer’s & fancy candy canes. All it took was a little effort, a time machine & something worth fighting for on their part.

Both of them look karma in the face, willing everyone around them to join in the feast; happy, pulling them out of their own little world’s into old school vintage frivolity. It doesn’t take long for contagion to spread outward in waves of pure, pulsing momentum & before you know it, Lady Jane is whisked off her feet, Ashcat taking her flapper hand in his leading her astray backstage.

8.

An after party, extends to more bubbles & a jacuzzi full to the brim – delightful mayhem unfolds as Lady Jane unfasten’s her corset, Ashcat losing his cravatt & all of their twisted innuendos culminate in uncomplicated hedonism; flesh, tripping the night fantastic!

Lady Jane doesn’t complain. She has it all & Ashcat is himself in all of his illuminated glory; batting those thick lashes, his deep brown eyes a beauty to behold. He smiles before ordering another round, his mantra postulating pleasure & someone slips up, spilling yet another cocktail.

9. 

A late afternoon checkout sky, invites their bodies to embrace, Lady Jane rolls over & Ashcat fits the mould perfectly, heavy breathing stirring slumber from an evening full of stars. 

10.

The parties over, it’s time to pack up.

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

Nest

Alphabet Poem

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Artist: Jodine Butler & Tabitha Lee, ‘Cairns Esplanade’ 2014

A
B
C
Do
E
For
God
Has
I
Just
Know
Let
Me
Now
Open
Please
Quality
R
So
The
U
View
We
X
You
Z

© Copyright 2016, Jodine Derena Butler & ‘Poetry Out West’. All Rights Reserved

Alphabet

Tears in Adam

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It seems all is lost
tears stream unstoppable
sticky salted lines – pool

Adam’s well over flows, cascading
to the lowest point; gravity
to catch & release a river

torrential rain carves
through rocks & broken boughs,
cradle free falling

swept away out of reach
where he ‘can’t keep up’ for love
a fathers heart breaks

tenterhooks; out-stretched arms,
grapple unconditional love
lest children leave scarred for life

/

I hold no bitterness for her or him
one day they will carry me back
home, re-cycling Karma

love knows no bounds, I repeat
forgiveness reconciles eventually
nothing lives forever

I don’t believe in the Devil
I believe in demons, spawned by ego
wisdom taking years to age gracefully

I think of all that was before
I pushed them all away – I can
be gentle in my own sanctuary

pain is no better or worse for wear
seeking peace defines our nature
we all must seek forgiveness

Humbled