Poetry | Poetry Out West

Man, Martyr & Misogynist

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One black laptop case (gift from Michelle)

One wooden desk (purchased from Marilyn)

One Brown square lamp table; Madang

One matching coffee table; Madang (both purchased from A-mart)

One complete set of original Tin Tin comics (Yes, ORIGINAL)

One missing portrait (of my children)

One piece of art

One damaged hammock

One damaged gate

One damaged printer

One ruined painting

Why?

Machiavellian Green-eyed Monster

My machiavellian green-eyed monster bats her surreptitious eyelids to within an inch of her lasciviously sly lips, barking out orders like Lady Muck subconsciously screwing her fucking finger, but all I can hear is a drum roll; her Devonshire high tea served & my Mad Hatter sets the scene with nothing more than a whistle

Scamper

Euphoria

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“I observe you – watching your every move. You’re watching everyone else…” JD Butler

Embodied euphoria

spreading outward like your ‘Albatross’, set to soar; crowd surfing your way into Heaven

You ride it like the wind

steam punking up your moves like they’re going out of fashion, reinventing the wheel & cogs kick up a gear on your deck

Euphoria kicks up a storm in my heels, my flapper tassles set to sidle sidelong into your heart – if I could retrace my steps, pulling my own heart strings

You set the scene in red

parasols with frilly bits line your periphery, reminding us of beauty & love can still be found in all the right places, in more than one heart

I move in time to paradiddles, rhyme & unreasonable expectations, underneath a canopy of tune swinging my way into bliss & unwelcome trysts

You, ‘row your boat’ to freedom in the stars without wind in your sails or decompression, relying on faith & kindness; your current is like lightening in fractals

I observe you – watching your every move. You’re watching everyone else, until the parties over & you find me

For a nanosecond I am smitten, before I find myself too afraid to feel

Loop

I’m So Over You

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I cringe these days, remembering all the lies

They just rolled off your tongue without a second thought

You are one big lie

I still remember all the good times I thought we had, even though they were fake

I guess it’s a sign of the times – fake heart, fake life, fake news

It was always going to be take, take, take with you

I’m so over you, that I laugh now when my friends find me a bumper sticker that sums you up in a nut shell

I’m so over you, that I find myself smiling thinking about someone else without having to watch my back

I’m so over you, that I find myself feeling sorry for you and your miserable, hard-done-by life and how you missed out

I’m so over you, that I hope you finally meet the one (in your dreams)

I’m so over you, I hope you find what you’re looking for and get everything you deserve

because, let’s face it

You deserve everything you get

Cringe

This Is How It’s Done

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Artist Unknown

It costs nothing to show me you care;

holding my hand

makes me feel like I belong with you

stroking my face

makes me feel cherished

look into my eyes

and I feel seen, really seen by you

hug me

and I feel loved

when you smile

I feel warmed by you

when you praise me

it makes me want to do even better

when you run your fingers through my hair

I want to bury my face in your chest

when you tell me you love me

I feel like I belong

when you say and do all of the above

you show me how much you really care.

Now that isn’t so hard

is it?

Create

Pride

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Oh God I was so proud of you, so proud to be your girl

Your wife

You made me feel beautiful, young and full of life again

I would often find myself picking myself up off the floor

When you’d walk in through the door

Your Cheshire beam warming me through and through

That’s how much I loved you

I spend my time in the garden when I feel motivated

Motivation is a hit and miss affair these days, while I bide my time

Trying my best to work it all out, pulling the weeds, remembering songs I used to sing

I can do it – pace myself. It’s not like I have to be anywhere in particular?

Slowing things down to feel my way, has taken me to Europe

Where I wandered about on my card, searching for that part that has her roots in history

She’s done it before, moving, started over, moving but I’m tired

If only I knew how to put down my own roots and reap what I sow

When all is said and done, I’ll be on the move – not run, telling you all to get fucked!

With a huge big smile on my face and crows feet

Happy 🙂

Paper

The Great Love of My Life

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The great love of my life just walked away, for the last time

I fall in love with you every time I see you, preferring to forget your flaws

It was your smile, your cheeky grin ~ you’re looking up at me from under those lashes

I fear I would have you back in a heartbeat, if we were to meet again eye to eye

It’s the hardest thing, to choose what’s better for me, over my hearts desire

It would take years of reconciliation, together apart for the wound to heal to scar –

I think about it, us and you hoping, wishing, looking for bargains to bring us back

But it’s too late now

You left me four times, and I took you back; I could never trust a man like that

Taper

My Dublin Leprechaun

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Photos by me, Jodine Derena Butler, 2017

I landed in old Dublin town not far from Temple Bar

I found me seat beside the barman, drinking apple cider

My leprechaun he raised his eyebrows, looked at me and sang a smile

He strummed his guitar, tapped his feet and I was left my heart on fire

For I had lost my Ireland, Dublin calling me back home

I landed in old Dublin town not far from Temple bar

I found my seat beside the barman, drinking apple cider

A pint or three? he said to me, I laughed and clapped and danced a jig

He sang to me in Gaelic land and I held my Johnny’s strumming hand

And so it was, the cider flowed, and we were left beside us

I landed in old Dublin town not far from Temple Bar

I found my seat beside the barman, drinking apple cider

We made our way to Clontarf castle, almost tripping over feet

Now it could be said, of what he did, that roseyed my cold cheeks in bed…

My Dublin Leprechaun beside me, crying in his arms he held me

He found me in old Dublin town, not far from Temple Bar

On my seat beside the barman, drinking apple cider

My Dublin leprechaun he found me, and to this day he will remind me

I came home that Temple Bar, he sang to me and stole my heart…

The Temple Bar Pub

Brassy
Version 2
I crossed the sea by winged plane

I landed in old Dublin town

I found my way to Temple Bar

Wth ruined roads a shambles
My Leprechaun was singing pretty
He sung to me of Dublin city

Fair lad and lass, love and loss

I felt my heart was heavy
I landed in old Dublin town

I found my way to Temple Bar

My ancestry lost long ago

Stories told me not remembered
My irish Leprechaun he told me

Some fair things are best forgotten

So I danced a jig to my long lost relies

And raised my glass of cider
I found myself in dublin city no Guinness factory

I raised my glass in Temple Bar

My Irish Leprechaun reminds me

Down at Temple Bar

I found myself in dublin town

Down at Temple Bar

My Leprechaun was a playin

I danced a jig for my long lost relies

I raised my glass of cider

And that was me, you see

I found myself in dublin city

Temple bar a clappin
One two three four times

I danced a jig for my long lost relies

Raised a jug to cider happy

Oh to be in Irish land

My irish Leprechaun held my hand

Oh my bonny lass

I Still Believe in Twilight

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Twilight

still, a gut wrenched
mixture of intensity

grief and deep joy
a juxtaposition of us

I was like Bella
you, my Edward

and I wasn’t afraid

in my dreams
I soared in my heart

till my heart stopped
diving into sorrow

my Edward morphing into Aro

I still believe in Twilight

even in your blatant disregard

I had my fairytale

Lady Jane had her way
shredding my heart in two

over a thousand years it would have killed me

tucked away under your tongue

under my breath

where everything moved
so bittersweet

I still believe in Twilight
although it is all I have left

of you

Total

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

Patriots still hide behind fascism, racism, Islamo-xenophobic’s beating their sunken chests to within an inch of their white male privileged lives, with nothing better that vitriol!

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 England, 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!

Putin Backs Inquiry

Fake News Purveyors Busted

White Innocence Denial

Detonate

Portobello Road and the Earl of Lonsdale

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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

Reprieve

Sold

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Photographer Barbora Biňovcovà

You sold me out, listening to thugs and bigots

I was the best thing since Findlay, only I ended up like Gaddafi with a knife in my back landing face down

What did I ever do to you?

I would have met, if it weren’t for the stench of deceit that smirks behind your false humour attempting to cast a shadow over my outlook

Gas lights your way ahead; a shimmer of truth in everything you say minus the facts, calculating my goodness to open up doors

You had it all Mr Black, and I gave it willingly till I saw past the facade – my asking questions was not the tell that gave you away

It was your penchant for believing I was like you, but I’m not

I am nothing like you!

I thought I saw a flicker of sadness on your face when I walked by, but I felt no penny’s fall

I blacked out your face in my periphery that protects an empty hole where you once lived, disconnected from everything about you

Just be thankful you couldn’t see the blue eyes that hide behind a white fluffy cloud, instead of staring

The future is up in the air

Let’s see if your hand/eye coordination is as good as you once thought, although my cards don’t rely on slight and my deck is not for sale

Are you happy now? You almost have what you want, but the yoke is still around your neck (mother)

I am where I’m meant to be, alone kicking up a storm in my grandmothers teacup, with my mouth wide open

Sold! To the highest bidder

Survive

Banshee sponge melody

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‘the atomic composition of the seeming solid’ by Shane Hollands

My favourite ‘Urbis street crossings’

made me laugh

you’re – you seem to be a free spirit Shane

I’m too scared of tragedy, but suck it up like a lemon anyway

hardship and solitude

in-between sudden bursts of intent

I can see you in your poems like I remember you at Poetry Live, but you won’t remember me

I had my head firmly shoved right up my arse, but I like strangers

they are non threatening and don’t stick around

a much nicer interlude

the first time I saw you in Freaky Meat in Titirangi, I really watched you

your sidelong glances around the room from under your mic

I’m always enthralled with mystery; what I don’t know or understand

like a banshee sponge living off a melody

you inspire me. I wonder if women can do it too? Wander aimlesslike without getting fucked over

leave a mark instead of a scar

I know a lot of people like you and I feel like an imposter

a fraud and sometimes a piece of meat

Freaky

Natty

Shades of Green

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Creating a life

One sweet green leaf at a time

Entrusting my self

Crisp

Alphabet Poem

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Artist: Jodine Majewski & 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

Alphabet

Morph Feign

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Artist: Unknown

Morphing into something
Resembling reason

Feigning change; talk
Telling truth, lies heart

Punctured to the core
Bleeding out, spattering

Red, volcanic lava trails
Tearing through my skin.

The cracks, wrinkles
Widening like gulfs;

Rifts of etched nuances.
Cooled down cuts

I still want, telling
Morph Feign

Morphing

Silence is White Noise

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Photographer: Michael Färber

still calm waters
wrap itself around

my skin raised up –
lifted the lows, sinking

stones left turned
bubbles barely breaking

the surface, ebb
rebounding shock

waves ripple bounce
back & forth, listening.

reason resides in hidden depths,
brackish stagnant pools

light resists, blacking out
stretching farther than first

thought, hindsight;
water – cooled fires

like lava, surface warmth down
played where gravity catches

molten feelers, still
too cool to touch.

white noise, silence
hidden hissing in the depths.

healing is impossible
under these conditions

where I fight
to subdue feelings

while she floats
detached from her

body watching with
no arms & legs

visualizing her flops
failing to protect

her self sub – merged.
the hard unyielding

cold reaching out,
waiting for you to come home.

afraid, fearing words
attack another layer

scar – tissue requiring
exising, freed up

canker replacing foul
with pink flushes

rosey & open to
new life, breathing

where there was once decay.

death, a living Hell
where Hades hath no fury

like a woman

hurt, drowning
in her own tears.

The Daily Post – Weightless

Malady Peg

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Artist: Unknown

You build a picture of me
outside the elongated square –
peg shaped box
I find myself circling

each single step
widens following
two side steps lengthening
nearly five decades deep

before I’m back in the shit
standing in front of the same scale
stained window or solid Oak door
or Samsung S4

my self imposed barricade
chain and key close
to my heart safe, keep
trusting no one

except a chain gang
of miscreants and misfits
mulling over life just right
subliminal messages

only those in the know can
decipher wisdom in code, words
biting off more than we can chew
at times, like these

you help build a picture of me
outside the elongated square –
peg shaped box
I find myself picking apart

with my fingernails, prying
into cracks like an un
suspecting little upstart
who has everything and nothing

we are social creatures
by nature, nurture featuring ways
to stray outside our four walls
where I space out

dependent distance, my avoidance
keeps my heart still beating
any attempt to heal, an affront
my demons wreck havoc

threaten to cut me off at the knee’s
if I don’t conform or dance
to the Pipers tune. my malady
freaks the Hell out of everyone

torture held captive

you are a picture of my self
outside my elongated square –
peg shape box, my reason
to die respectfully

circumnavigating
ways through and around,
bashing my head up
against invisible walls

that thwart my existence
here, questions unanswered
philosophical paradoxical paradigm s;
the meaning of life and death

I want to go home,
listen to the ebb and flow
of waves, seagulls and sand
crunching between my toes

and decide if I want to live.

Farce

Working through Cobwebs

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Melbourne Street Art – Artist Unknown
Photographer: Jennifer Cox
Photo used with permission

I’m trying to work through cobwebs, he said,

with eyes pouring like rain
into a leaky boat
squaring off the shoreline
heading out to sea
avoiding Redbacks
like the plague, negotiating
rogue waves
behind his back
facing his fear; ex
tended arms pull
away – escape
for the moment.

he scans the horizon
left to right that sinking
feeling farther, closer
than he expected denial; a river in Egypt
too far away to row
a thunder clap into eternity,
Isis turning a blind eye
Triton dragging him
under, spinning
a vortex only Terra
firma can translate.

taking the bull
by the horns, he finds
solid ground wrestling
Taurus, knee deep
in mud that sticks
like shit on the inside,
cobwebs cling to hard
wired neurons
lodged in the gaps
in – between grey,
a matter for
black and white.

separate, facts find
fiction fornicating
in a web of deceit
by design, too lurid
for children like
Persephone – abducted
innocence; a metaphor
for rape, choking the Hell
out of life, all the while
pseudo affection bribes
a handful of lollies
to sweeten the blow.

I want everything to be saved,
he said.

Notorious

Billy off the Grid

Image

Jean François Millet
‘Shepherdess with her Flock’

I’d be content
I think, maybe
if I put one
of those solar
thingy’s on the roof,
and grow my own
medication
in between the
herbs and gourmet
spuds. I could
collect rain water,
filtered by cheese –
cloth, milk
a Capricorn goat
and call her Billy
Bold tethered
to a tree on a long
line. I would have
to buy a ham – mock
and mosquito net
but first I’d have
to settle it all up,
let it go
to the highest bid –
ders, then look
around off the beaten
track for somewhere
remote, outback
with at least a well –
spring for summer;
when it all dies
and I’m left
looking at the goat,
licking my mutton
chops wishing
for a pork, cracking
open a Veuve. I’d do it
and serve up a con –
coction of hysteria
only fit for the loony
bin – laden. I would
laugh at the irony
of having nothing
and no – one to
complain about, ex –
cept who I was
before I decided
to go off grid; fate
leading me astray
after yet another
furious outburst of
solipsism. cynicism
better left
with no one
to witness my de –
mise, except for
Billy Bold
in my bed
keeping me awake,
chewing the fat.

Billy Bold – Graham Brazier (Hello Sailor)

Radiate

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