Oh Amsterdam! 

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Anne Frank was here living in squalid conditions, only to be ratted out by patriots in 1944, Gestapo herding her and hers out like cattle transported far, far away from this place

Just like the world today, history repeating in Chechnya where gays are sent into concentrated camps, denying their existence as the world watches with a limp dick or wet fish and everyone has an arsehole about Syria

Passive narratives join in the furore, patting collective backs up against invisible walls dividing more than the usual apartheid regimes of monopoly – needing a change? Freedom comes in sanctioned collateral damage, onlookers merely pawns in the battle for world domination and white suited supremacy, lead by Uncle Sam of course!

My world is tainted, leftist humanity tipping the balance in favour of compassion and tolerance, set to split my heart in two where atrocities are rendered into political manipulations; illuminated lies and propaganda 

Religion sets the scene by revisiting inquisitions and crusaders choose selection over perception again, and again failing to unlearn the inevitable apathy and indignation that comes from slavery

Amsterdam was once a safe haven till in her final hour she succumbed to insanity, and I remember Anne resisting adolescent outbursts in her diary – not unlike our Facebook counterparts where truth is confused with censorship and fake news by design

I am here in Amsterdam with the weight of the world at war against my back, looking for salvation in the past, lessons to consolidate so that I can pilfer some sort of peace of mind from the rabble

Mushroom soup set to lift the lid off my self imposed restraint. If only I could find a way forward that doesn’t leave me looking over my shoulder, and cannabis prohibition just makes no sense at all!

Longing for that balance to tip where I am appreciated for my self while belonging to no one, safe in my tulip tea party knowing I have a place to call home to go back to, is no consolation for rejected refugees 

My heart has an ancestry here in Britain, Ireland, Scotland, Spain and France with an Australian convict deportment threatening the sin of a potato famine, back to New Zealand where it all began

If I’m not careful, I will be made to do penance against my Will and I don’t believe in god! No gods ever made sense to my rationale or their behaviour, and those postulating as priests are nothing but wolves! 

Religion is best served cold, where it belongs tossed into a neocon salad with all the trimmings of Kali on the side just to rub it in to both christian and muslim radicals

I prefer to chow down with the artists and define my existance as heresy and colour my world with its shadows and stalwart resistance, always resisting and history will be on my side eventually, when the smoke clears and everyone is looking for a scapegoat

Amsterdam is set to blow!

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

Fey

An emotional midget lives inside my fettered mind. The sprite kind, green as the Irish, young like Danu’s children dancing, invisible to most save Fey. She is gullible, easy prey for those with nothing better to do – they say opposites attract: I am like rat bait.

She is not quite right in the head my sprite but don’t get me wrong, she might have a little hunch in her brain stem, walk around muttering under her breath, but she is conjuring up Narcissus in an attempt to fill up the holes in her white tunic.

How she came to be this way is a long story, suffice to say that public humiliation is akin to Oedipus Complex
with a tiny bit of Penis Envy on the side; there is nothing quite like having an orgasm at someone else’s expense.
If you are a man, well I guess you just grew a little taller, women, maybe just a little bit smarter.

My sprite has been known to feign a smile. Rather than cower in the corner, she has worn patches. I heard this one woman say she would never
have plastic surgery on her face, (in male company of course), then make an appointment to have her breasts enlarged, the bags under her eyes lifted.

I wear my heart on my sleeve most days melancholy. She plays while listening to The Pied Piper watching hoards of people leave single file.
Emotionally speaking, she is not known to accurately sift thoughts; binge eating her way into the Guinness Book of World Records, one defiant leap of blind faith at a time.

My wee lass likes to be alone, but craves the company of others so she doesn’t have to hide. Once upon a time there was no such thing as social isolation, the preferred title was Witch rather than loony toon. She thinks too much, trying in vain failing miserably; second sight may as well be as viable as the second coming.

In my mind, my confused emotional midget state of a mind, I am wondering where she has been and where I am going. Most days I re-live the past with distorted accuracy staring into the wide blue yonder sitting on my desktop. She looks out on to a Google landscape, straining. I can’t see the wood for the spam.

© Copyright 2010 Jodine Derena Butler.  All Rights Reserved