A Month of Bloody Sundays for a Soireè

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That bloody clock

just keeps ticking away, oblivious to the tension

stretching my larynx to breaking point,

reminding my throat how fucking dry it is

without Vocalzone.

Stupid me, put my finger up didn’t I and

said I’d bloody do it!

Rhiannon knew it was a bit much to expect

after her long hiatus, but I loved her so much!

It’s so un-fucking-fair. My expectations of me,

others, hope’s, memories and failed dreams.

I just want to sing. Sing my little husky heart out,

warm my chops and put on a show – but no,

it is not this day.

My throat peaked off into falsetto land

without my god-damned permission!

I nailed it yesterday but those professional folk

down in Portsmith Club won’t be looking for

quirky.

I stuck my bloody hand up and said I’d do it,

knowing full well I’d need to practice

for a month of bloody Sunday’s before

Stevie Nicks invited me back to her condo for a soireè.

For God’s sake!

I know I can do her, I’ve done her a thousand times in my dreams

and belted out that husky vibrato in A minor.

I sent the man a text ‘Can’t bloody make it’,

knowing his contemptable chuckle will reverberate through the atmosphere

on the other end.

Why did I do it?

Put my hand up and wave frantically for someone to take notice,

‘Here I am pick me, pick me – I can sing’.

I could sing, really well, years ago in my thirties and forties.

I feel so lonely without her.

She used to sing me to my happy place but not any more.

It’s like dying a savage kind of musical death and I’m so scared its over.

I don’t think musicians can really be bothered with a

washed-out-has-been-old-girl

from New Zealand.

There’s plenty more fish in the sea, so it seems.

I’ll just stay at home and feel sorry for myself and

cry myself to sleep.

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

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Kuranda Dreaming

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I drove the car

up the Kuranda range today, the trailor laden

with water-blasters, hoses and fittings.

I didn’t say much.

I dropped off the boys, and left them behind so I could wander about the market,

wishing I was barefoot.

I still blended in.

No makeup, except I could have worn jandels or thongs instead of proper shoes,

and a larger dress to hide my burgeoning bust.

It was like a dream.

A technicoloured rainforest dreaming with chunky wrought iron seats,

a chair, dangly shells

and driftwood creations all twisted and twisting,

(hung from gold-plated fishing line).

A corroboree

of trinkets for our fair tourists. Opals and artist prints

priced at over $28

thousand dollars! Too rich for this hippie and the majority of the locals I imagine.

Still, I managed to find

my way to the old market,

find a churro place that served a cheap eggs bene.

I stipulated

I didn’t want snottie egg whites to no avail.

I cried writing my poem, ‘the Mummers Dance’.

I secretly wished someone would magically notice my fragmented aura,

and offer my broken arse a foot rub

or a clearing energy

but it never came. Hippies are broker than me, mostly.

I changed my mind several times, ending up

back at the car and $21 dollars poorer.

I looked at my bloodshot eyes in the visor mirror,

wondering if I could get away without being seen.

I found my way back,

and sat in the car while they finished up for another two hours.

It wasn’t so bad,

chatting to my Karma in between clenched cheeks, kicking myself for a loo.

I stripped off

all my clothes when I got home and washed myself clean.

I’m still spread-eagled on the bed as we speak.
© Copyright 2018, Jodine Derena Butler & Poetry Out West. All Rights Reserved

Rheumatic Stigmata

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The bed creaks like your bones
that moan and groan
that slow grind through clenched teeth,
that need between the sheets

~

It’s August now
as cold as it gets here in Winter.
I’m buying an electric blanket
to warm you through; least I run you through
with my lasciviously pointy finger!

Still, I wrap my legs
around your freezing appendages,
making a spoonful of sugar
while you lick the cream
from your Cheshire 😀

I can’t help but bear your stubborn,
stoic Far North Queenslander pride;
pleasured simplicity, complicit
with your Will to burn the wick
at both ends, ajoint screaming
a string of profanity

In Summer, I knead
your splintered lamb shank
while you shovel nutrition down
with a tincture of mindfullness,
layer upon layer of oil, and Green Tea
setting the scene for a modern beer

I find it hard, to watch your tenacity
come face to face with Dachau – Grim
barking out his contempt
while she ducks for cover in sewage…

We have to make the trip worthwhile
or its all for naught; she signs a cross
Pope John Paul II raised the host
because he had all the respect in the world

for Mary.  Sometimes I wonder
what will become of our inheritance
if the light at the end of the tunnel
really is another oncoming train?

We have to find a way through
our fragile past lives where we would
seethe on the outside and cower on the in,
if it weren’t for temperance; sharp edges constrained by blunt force trauma

In the meantime, I heat the purple wheat bag in the microwave
laying it carefully between the sheets

You know I love you most when you least expect it

© Copyright 2015, Jodine Derena Butler.  All Rights Reserved

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