Famous Last Words

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In the event of an imminent thermonuclear war, all we can do is watch,

& wait.

We wait for the sun to rise in the East – Putin, putting on the ritz, while the West opens their vintage wardrobe & rummages through threadbare tassles, choking on clouds of faux fur.

We, watch & wait

witnessing White Helmets filming fake news, staging fake attacks, doing God’s dirty work not dissimilar to Custer’s last stand.

Still, we watch

& wait,

while royalty fight over the spoils; children picking bones apart, the rise of Zion (Judas) & the damnation of Mother Mary

respectfully, although they both feed off one another like zombies in a blood bath.

Watching & waiting,

for the irony of it all to become clear. The penultimate finale – being surrounded by the proverbial white light.

Fucking bastards!

The last sun ever to set in the West, leaving everything we knew behind.

A spectacular sunset, followed closely by a long, dark, cold, post apocalyptic nightmare.

I for one, watch

scanning the horizon willing it to rain,

waiting

for a new dawn.

Disrupt

Maximòn

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Photographer: Scott Wilcox, Fuzion Photography, 2017

“…fine tuning the in-between of harmony; hearts, earth & sky” JD Butler

Maximòn,

the epitome of balance:

patience & frustration,

softly spoken & vehement.

Ritual billowing, vaping

new life

into old lungs,

filtering

pure tobacco into undulating balls of steam.

His stage is an altar.

We dance, cleansing much more than our spirit,

fine tuning

the in-between

of harmony; hearts,

earth & sky.

Our effigy, enlightening the soul & keeping her secrets,

venerable in his wisdom.

Our Columbian overlord garnishes

the Mayan temple our grandfather’s bestowed.

Protective.

Upcycling shadows, illuminating the light –

breathing new life.

He is the embodiment of patronage & the people,

regenerating

health, crops, marriage, business, revenge & death.

Holding

our community together.

Maximòn

Glimmer

Cobalt Blue Wings

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The Daintree again,

eventually.

One more visit to Port Douglas & everything was shut!

For once, I didn’t feel

anything.

I never know if I’m going to see a cassowary,

or watch a ulysses flashing

cobalt blue wings

in the wood; my attention, caught off guard,

landing

on a branch or leaf – just out of

reach.

I hope for glimpses of colour

to blur my vision, invite me to follow that willow

like a wisp.

Steep curves in the road

climb &

descend &

slow down

for those shuddering bars strategically placed

becoming progressively more gnarly, closer

to paradise.

Lost.

Remembering chivalry – that warm endearing charm & seductive attention

that would set my seat aside, leaving me

to explore every crevice & fold.

For once, I didn’t feel

a thing.

Soldier crabs scurry into spherical holes dug deep into the sand, sidestepping that fine line; waves,

washing in & out

hiding those croc’s you know are just under the surface.

I dont bother scanning the rainforest for anything else

that moves.

I didn’t feel you there.

Braver than most – or foolish. I’m yet to decide.

I don’t remember butterflies.
© Copyright 2018, Jodine Derena Butler & Poetry Out West. All Rights Reserved

Froth

Sylvia Prefers Madness over Insanity

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It’s going to hurt digging in, under my skin.

Trust. Pain.

Death before dishonour – the Cold War sits in Sylvia’s parlour,

pretending patience is a virtue. We all watch,

a slow burn, already warming the tips

of her lasciviously long

fingers,

licking at her lips.

She would rather shake you all off, than let loose another tirade,

another stone, another reason to beg

forgiveness.

Sabotage sinking to a new low.

Silvia’s far too unreasonable, although

she prefers irrational; madness defining her in the end. Hands

& feet securely strapped,

her mouth,

stuffed shut with gauze & gaffer tape.

No sign of life – metal bars

& padded cells

resembling reason.

Floral oriental lilies.

Shes always known how to let go.

Karma, Brainiac & Putin’s Balls of Steel

Posted on March 31, 2018 by Jodine

“Karma…she doesn’t rely on intel, cointel, black or psy ops of any kind” JD Butler

Relationships,

are not all they’re cracked up to be.

They are like sabotaged roses; severed from stems,

rolling like heads,

to feel like

Oh!

I don’t know.

Denial,

is like sleep walking, except star gazing in day dreams,

avoiding

a fourth kind encounter, shining a light beam on all our useless airs & graces.

Waking hours are left,

wanting.

Karma’s, not any dirtier than her alter ego would suggest either.

At least she let’s you in,

ties you up,

then fucks you up the arse before she withdraws.

In her world, she doesn’t care.

She doesn’t rely on intel, cointel, black or psy ops of any kind,

in order to see past you & into the future.

To her, we are all space invaders that have the potential to devour.

Russia, may be all over the West but Brainiac’s got the universe covered.

He sucks & fucks his way though world’s several times over – therefore, we won’t have a shit show in hell, by the time he gets here.

Putin’s already won his war anyway (the West is going down).

By the time you realise WTF just happened, that warm thermonuclear feeling you have between your legs –

will be soiling more than just your knickers.

There is no infinity & beyond when relationships are run on denial.

Betrayed

Karma Keto

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One camel toe please,

two new boobs,

one new neck,

one flat stomach

& two stick arms.

The goal has been exceeded, in Thailand.

Swell hell, can go to hell!

Karma tells me she’s having Keto tonight.

Next stop, Brazil.

One fat transfer please,

two stick legs

& a Partridge in a pear tree.

Micro

Bangkok Deconstructed

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Bangkok deconstructed:

fractured concrete buildings, ripped apart as I watch from my Somerset window.

Steel, jutting haphazard in tangled knots; a once perfectly acceptable infrastructure,

now crumbling blocks fall into piles of useless rubble, while machinery scrapes the lot into a perfect square level playing field.

Ready for the next wave of antagonists selling prosperity,

pins & pegs.

Nips & tucks,

scalpel’s cutting across corners, aligning smooth curves with invisible sutures.

Skin, falling into plastic bags; trophies with twistie ties, all captured by Five Eyes.

Fat globules disperse & intermingle among the blood & yellowing toxic waste,

stretch marks & saggy skin. Torture under white lights (hung, drawn & quartered), like medieval madness.

Discarded pieces of meat/flesh going up in smoke, incinerated into giant plumes.

Rancid ashes & suffocating dust resuscitating enlightenment

into a new age.

Invisible

Backshed Bullshit Press

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“We can’t approve every poet, in case it reflects badly” JD Butler

‘It’s only a name and doesn’t really mean anything’

But it seems as though it matters at the end of the day.

Standards must be kept after all.

It’s only for skilled/educated, literate poets.

We can’t approve every poet, in case it reflects badly.

We must make ourselves look good.

Weed out the riff raff as it were.

Make a name for ourselves.

Only the chosen few will be supported.

Friends and family.

Fact

Freaky Fish & the Stench of Rotting Meat

I could smell it a mile away. The stench. It reeked. A purple suit jacket couldn’t distract my nasal passages, any more than the blue arse flies circling around my eggs bene and an old English breakfast. A seedy but not too bad cafe on Sandringham Road.

My submission was a waste of time and money in the end. His slobbering tongue may as well have slid around the inside of my mouth, probing for fishy morsels when he should have been licking the egg yolk, about to dribble from the corner of his. But there will be no saving the 1970’s retro tie from yet another polka dot stain.
I’m sure he could smell it too. My hot, pulsating wet pussy, soiling my knickers over the prospect of having my culinary words eaten out of context. It stinks. There is nothing quite like the smell of rotting meat to make a woman feel heavenly – retch! It cracks me up every time I regurgitate.
/
It was all business and no pleasure. A typical overcast Auckland day in the middle of winter, but it still didn’t stop him adjusting his oversized proportion trying it on for size. That would be a clichè, if he were unable to stop drooling over my salmon.
The damage is done. A lingering malaise assuming everyone thinks I suck. All it took was a piece of meat and all the fingering fucked me over. No conspiracy theory this time, just a stench and salmonella in my mouth.
/
Nazis were a problem.

I should have taken them all out.

Messy

Honesty Died with Bukowski

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“Brown nosing is considered commentary, while deceit still lingers in gaslit ovens” JD Butler

People could learn to say what they mean, & mean what they say but

brown nosing is considered commentary, while deceit still lingers in gaslit ovens; no professionalism, integrity or due process.

Fraudulent essentially – powerful people full of egotistical self righteous bigotry, who really don’t give a fuck! Zealots who would suck off anything & lick the rim, just to play the press.

I’ve retired, & that doesnt give anyone the license to try to get their end away by throwing a ‘seemingly solid’ literary curve ball at me, that’s totally full of shit!

Honesty died with Bukowski & I wish I lived in America, because I know exactly where to buy a cheap gun

without any background checks.

Dim

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!

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.

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.

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.

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

Conversant

Lady Lazarus & the Voice of Ratified Reason

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“If I had the grace to fall apart respectfully, there would be no need for enlightenment”. JD Butler

He’s using me, I’m using him – both of us working on a palatable means to several ends & everyone’s happy on the dance floor, except me / Lady Lazarus, fully loaded

machinations mimicking my madness & everything I have survived is temporarily erased from my memory / the neglect, the rapes, the con artists & the turning of blind eyes. The violence

of insanity, cleansing the last of my contemptible dirty pieces. A ruse in the end, designed to ratify my plea bargain, still set to drown in a sea of toxic shame, churning

out green bile – something the dogs love to salivate over.

It all sounds so depressing, except for the sun that continues to rise; refracted light beams infiltrating my cracks,

forcefully illuminating all remaining fragments of hope that haven’t yet marvelled at a setting sun. I am thankful.

If I had the grace to fall apart respectfully, there would be no need for enlightenment, you would all marvel at my unadulterated halo & drop to your knees, prostrate

but I am a mere mortal woman. No God could ever carry me across the sand or walk on water or set me down on the island of my choice,

without some sort of comeuppance; paying the ferryman requires nerves of steel / I lack the will to either live or die,

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

Imagination

Snoop

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“I wrap myself around you because I never want to let you go” JD Butler

I recognise, that you are as sensitive as I am emotional & I understand you more everyday. It makes a change to see your demons rear their ugly head, while you trust

yourself for the most part & you’re not as corrupt as you think you are, or broken. I’m attracted to your strength. You could never be corrupt, although you carry a weight

upon your shoulders, that I have only just begun to comprehend. I only learn from what you share, to compare & you will share as you see fit, when the smoke clears & you can look me in the eyes; present,

your true colours in all their glory, will remember that responsibility means letting go – surrender, your last great bastion of growth.

I wrap myself around you because I never want to let you go.

Spank

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“She will always lay down the spank & attempt to ignite your bright sparks…” JD Butler

I laid down the spank today, allowing my indignation to spontaneously combust. I exploded & so did he, backfiring.

My flame fired up appropriately ~ something didn’t sit quite well, was unethical, insensitive or just plain ignorant & I refused to douse

exceptions even now, although I risked being scorched ~ my truth, just too damn hot to handle, those nerves, just too damn uncomfortable; neuron’s,

doing some sort of defensive martial arts’ move off the back of a band wagon, straight into the proverbial bonfire; my face, red

eyes burning embers, boring into the heart of the matter, without blinking once.

My flame, extinguished in the end but it wasn’t all for nothing & I wasn’t inebriated, so I guess there was no excuse to offer up. I also refuse,

to apologise for my inner bitch. She will always lay down the spank & attempt to ignite your bright sparks, while you listen & learn.

You know it works both ways. I’d happily lie ~ across your knees while you give me a serve.

Conjure

Get Over It

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Original painting of Jodine Derena Butler, graffiti on canvas by Adrian Falkner aka SMASH, 2007

He said get over it,

& he’s right. My friend said to me once that I had to learn to live without needing a man. My daughter said, there’s plenty of replacements out there, (not that she was suggesting anything of the sort) but,

are these really the answers? I know they are all three, onto something, but me. I haven’t recovered from the last one, the trauma that stripped me down to my bare brittle bones & left me incarcerated in my mind – me, the iconoclast

reduced to a smidgen of my former self. I feel my body buzz, that digital alarm clock refusing to turn off, snoozing indefinitely in some futile attempt to deny it’s existence. My only relief,

an altered state that heals me, temporarily igniting serotonin filling me with laughter & lust, leading me astray into pleasure – the pain, retreating into recessed cavities like tooth decay.

In my natural state, my zombie-like vessel of despair is frozen in a headfuck, not dissimilar to those offering themselves up for cryogenic enlightenment; an obscene experiment, waiting for the utopian dream.

I struggle to hold on.

I smile at memories of when I was on fire, & you gathered around me like a moth, my flame fanning a wildfire of desire & I controlled the burn.

Life’s not like that now. I admire those who can turn a lemon into lemonade, mutton into lamb & a deep dish Russian pie served with liquor, into a feast for days.

I’m so introverted & egocentric that I can’t see you – you, with a heart the size of a universe, a mind as creative as Tesla’s & nature like a Phoenix that’s died a thousand times, only to be reborn, transformed into the beautiful man that you are.

I lie. It’s me who can’t seem to find herself, still lost in that ethereal realm inhabited by visceral ghosts, inciting death & despair into anger & self flagellation.

I am so blind I can’t find my way home. They say home is where the heart is – my home is an empty shell; it’s roof resembling dismembered body parts, now strewn across the lawn in a cyclonic fury, like pieces of me.

It was way too soon to start over again. I am still too fragile to smash.

Despite it all, you tell me you love me everyday.

Cavity

Sacred Reflections

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I can learn to trust:

Innocence, the touchy feely wonderfulness you share with everyone.

Respect, for private conversations with our beautiful friends.

Moments, when you forget you’re with me, until you remember lovingly.

Orbiter’s, that can barely disguise their agenda’s, until you assert yourself honestly.

Occasions, where I risk opening myself up to play – loving you.

Fear, when my thoughts take me to dark places & I have to learn to speak softly.

Silences, that are sacred reflections of us & I learn how to listen.

Times, when unconsciousness collides & I am awakened, letting go.

Your heart, that shines just for me in our togetherness.

I am learning to trust that I will be ok,

Lady Jane’s Ashcat

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Nest

Unicorns & Rainbows

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“Hillary…she’d be the first to ride her rodeo on the back of a silver bullet” JD Butler

War, a battling agent designed to glorify ancient ruminating mores; thoughts, aided & abetted by Kim’s immortal unicorn’s & Trump’s small penis syndrome spouting poppycock, two death stars on a collision course designed to yield maximum impact, vaporized along with sanctioned collateral damage inside a nuclear vacuum.

My brain is not unlike a chemical weapon, a ballistic missile without the regime change; two opposing hemispheres, except it’s lights out for North Korea & more freedom for America, but thats nothing compared to the super sonic shit storm about to rain down over the rest of us plebs, leaving no other alternative but to join in the furore or bite down on a little white capsule.

Japans fucking proverbial rainbow is the least of my worries – China has that angle covered & Putin’s KGB weighs in on their diplomatic psyops by looking down the barrel of a sniper scope. I’m surprised Trump’s still alive, he wouldn’t be if Hillary had her way, she’d be the first to ride her rodeo on the back of a silver bullet.

We all have demons. Some just have the power to mobilise millions of indoctrinated patriots to do their dirty work for them. Turnbull wishes he had balls the size of Dutton’s border force – the good ole Australian way preferring to torture & torment whole nations into submission & we all know how that ends, except we keep the fight alive by abjectly refusing to surrender. Sound familiar?

Good old divide & conquer tactics they don’t teach you in school. If we all had little red button’s to push, we’d all be dead right about now, that grey slate wiped clean once & for all, but you can bet your bottom petro-dollar you’d need two corresponding red button’s to be pushed simultaneously somewhere else, by someone else for it all to go away. Anyone with a brain bigger than a peanut would have beaten the shit out of their button by now, with a big red hammer rendering them both useless.

I’m tired. I’m tired of listening to monolgues of bullshit – diatribes of voices I recognise & once knew, who taunt me in my waking hours & consume me in my torrid nightmares. I’d like to find a cure, a single dose that does away with it all overnight, waking to find a gigantic mushroom cloud on the horizon, my zombie-like state basking in its afterglow.

What the hell can any of us do anyway? Hippies are all psychedelic has-been’s & the internet’s got us all dumbed down with information overload, a juxtaposition if ever I’ve witnessed one, the fact is we’re all sitting on our fat arses in front of mobile stargates, waiting for another 9/11 false flag attack just enough to distract us from our disease!

In the meantime, my mangled ovaries sit beside ghost fallopian tubes, in the void between surgical clips & internal organs, floating in intraperitoneal liquid; a vacuous black hole inside a deep space continuum, along with hubris.

I’m using that as my excuse.

Identity

Trusting Eros

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“Love & trust; butterflies dancing the jitterbug of intimacy” JD Butler

Eros,

enlightened, child-like & open, a huge lotus in full bloom, full of all the goodness in this world, his beautiful broken body without any malevolent, preconceived notion’s designed to use & abuse.

He stole Psyche away, saving her spirit in the process, magnetic pulses strobe lighting his way ahead, kinesthetic mind & limbs – delightful fullbodied jolts, his presence filling up the many holes in her senses.

Psyche,

a mere mortal woman; barefoot, pedicured nails flashing glimpses of autumn in-between the dirt, her toes digging in, surrounded by jealous sister’s who would pick & pull her apart given half the chance.

She struggles, resisting all that is good for her, sidestepping melodies with fragrant twists & turns; allowing old fashioned vintage love to lead her astray, before two left feet trip up & over, falling into his arms.

Trust,

in full swing, is the opposite of temptation & betrayal, so she stays & sways to his tune, soul breathing learning to trust a backbeat into grace.

Brave

#dailyprompt

Angry Drunk Girl

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“It was well after midnight before the first cock crowed & the lights went out indefinitely.” JD Butler

We Ubered into town, once we got our shit together, sorted lines & tripped the lights. The Jack featured Bullhorn & us Dee Jay’s from Ashcats & Rizon, our Friday week off to a roaring 1920’s vintage swing finale!

Bar tabs, Summers, champers & me, the bar bitch on fine swagger for most of the night – till the light flipped & the angry drunk girl was refused entry. She swung through mad backbeats in-between Bullhorns’ ska, till the shit hit the fan in spectacular speakeasy.

Rizon flipped digital vinyl, off & on like the open & shut of Phil’s steam punk pocketwatch – Ashcat’s in fine time. Me, almost deepthroating the mic, freestyling to a crowd of five hundred or more, just before angry drunk girl showed up again, taking the piss while she ripped off her brazen bustier & let it all hang out.

It was not her finest hour, even though Carla’s lightbeam replaced stares, calming more than a sea of storming masculinity, it was well after midnight before the first cock crowed & the lights went out indefinitely.

Angry drunk girl reared her ugly head first thing in the morning – then decided it wasn’t worth the effort.

Witty

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