The Ungrateful Bitch

My heart is breaking today. I want to die. I am all alone in this world, unloved and forgotten. I am breaking down in the moment surrounded by strangers and strange smells that have come barraging into my sacred space and pegged me into a corner. I don’t have the will to live anymore. I look for ways to end my life that doesn’t require umpteen steps to get there. I wish to just slip away in my sleep, in silence, in peace. There are spies everywhere. Pseudo friendships of users and manipulaters. Pretenders. I want to simply vanish, disappear without a trace knowing no one would ever call to find me and it will be as-if I never was. If I am a Goddess, it doesn’t add up. There is something inside me that fails to love or be loved. I must have been an angel once, but the universe has me outcast. I pray for my quick death but my whole life has been a slow grief stricken process of dying. I want it all to end. I visualise my soul manifesting in mist; graceful swirls arising from my lifeless body. Ascension taking me back home to timeless euphoria and relief. All I’ve ever wanted was to love and be loved but I am not worthy. None of us are. If life is a gift, I have been an ungrateful bitch.

But we all have down days. Poetry helps me to purge and heal.

© Copyright 2021, Poetry Out West, Jodine Derena Butler. All rights reserved

Am I A Feminist?

1.

Am I a feminist?

I make the fantasy real for him, giving up parts of myself –

My look

My mind

My body

My heart.

Pieces of me, served up over silver platitudes,

three course meals

and French champagne.

2.

Malleable breasts and tight buttocks

reclaim their complimentary one half of the whole

reality

filling holes in Psyche every time she is alone.

Separate and connected,

happy and unremarkable

half truths, open to anyone who will listen.

3.

In her deepest recesses, she is compartmentalised – a waif, aloof.

Dissociation

learned to leave a long time ago, doing only what they wanted to make them happier

for the two of us.

A tragedy, waiting for a fairy tale ending that doesn’t involve

the death of Eros.

Instead she paints pictures that never quite get finished –

My pencils

My paints

My inks

My pastel chalks

covered in charcoal dust fingerprints,

scared of letting go.

4.

She still held on

to dreams

of Volkswagon beetles,

Austin land crabs,

Holden utes and XD Falcon

panel van’s reinforced with 6ml steel plates

pink stickered on the side of the road.

5.

I say goodbye to all the abusers –

My family

My friends

My lovers

My colleagues.

Self care now cloistered in her abandon while you watch,

published one day by some back shed press, captioned

‘Clichèd-Poet-Ends-It-All’

because forfeiture has no shame.

She was happier then

and then she died,

turning grey like her foibles and colourless lines.

6.

Am I a feminist?
© Copyright 2019, Jodine Derena Butler & Poetry Out West. All Rights Reserved

Ms Necessity & Tragedy’s Limbo

Ms Necessity, negates a decision to go left or right, preferring to stay on course crash landing her way through one of those flourescent white barrier’s that sneaks up in your headlights, at the end of a long road.

She chooses to wipe herself out by launching into a paddock full of daisies, coming to a screaming halt in an old weeping willow tree where her mangled wreck, dangles in its branches like Mr Wesley’s Flying Ford Anglia.

She wouldn’t leave behind any skid marks if it could be helped.

Necessity cares about the beautiful blue patch of meanies & over-ripe blackberries that would otherwise be squelched into bruised crimson & clover – leaving a blight on an otherwise picturesque, if not comedic scene.

Of course Tragedy saw her coming & spotted the wreck a mile off, while in a trance somewhere in limbo. She has a way of turning up unexpected-like & departs just as quickly & you’ll always end up with a little scratch to remember her by.

There’s not much room for Tradegy & Necessity to co-exist. Both see peace as an oxymoron. The why’s and what for’s are an irrelevant waste of grey matter, but the writing has always been on the wall, if anyone cares to look (behind the iron curtain).

They’ll both lock me up given half the chance & if I wasn’t so tired I’d do it my bloody self & throw away the key!

All I can say, is that the medication better be good or I’ll be asking for a second opinion. Mr Brownstone seems a lot more enlightened than big pharma right about now & all I need to do is find a little entertainment on Torrent!

Tragedy, bless her, is still leaning toward oblivion while Necessity would prefer to quietly pass over without any fuss.

Now, she likes the idea of flying.
© Copyright 2018, Jodine Derena Butler & Poetry Out West. All Rights Reserved

Insurgents & Demons

If it weren’t for you

O-Great-Poetic-One,

I’d be dead.

Dead!

Instead,

I brutally murder

my self in thoughts

several times a day,

churning over the past,

the future & my

flawed imperfections.

I pander to worms &

the soup of blood

& bone,

till I can’t stand

it any more

&/or they take me

away.

Torture temporarily appeasing

the masochistic God

who takes down

mental notes

& I transform parables

into atheism,

in order to re-line

my keloid brain.

She is brazen.

My alter-ego

tempts me to desire

a public beheading /

a martyr’s death

by diatribe & by

my inner monologue.

What poppycock!

Disbelief betrays

her ever-widening circle of friends,

bringing her closer

to the edge, where that fabled Fool

steps out into no-man’s land,

off that ledge of no return.

However,

I choose to die

in stanza’s, paraphrasing

my life into mythical metaphor’s

that transform those insurgents &

demons into words,

trying to leave behind

another seedless watermelon

Neruda would be proud!

*

The truth is,

I want someone

to love me

but Mr Young said it better,

‘it doesn’t mean that much to me, to mean that much to you’.

Is it any wonder

to want to die?

Is it any wonder

I’m still alive?

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

Most Days

“I’m in my garden planting, weeding or harvesting.” JD Butler

1.

Most days I want to die.

My heart breaks

over the most

stupidest of things.

My thoughts tell me I am not

strong enough

pretty enough

skinny enough

feminine enough

kind enough

friendly enough

sexy enough

compassionate enough

caring enough or

rich enough.

My brain tells me I’m too

moody

angry

sad

depressed

anxious

ugly

scared

fragile

emotional

weak

unpredictable

unstable

flighty

and fickle.

My brain tells me to think

the worst of every situation, interpret every thing as an

attack

snide remark

slur

corner

lie

deception or

ulterior motive.

I really shouldn’t take things so personally.

Others think I’m too

Sexual

Slutty

Useing

Abusing

Needy and

Crazy.

I guess

that’s why he told me I have no friends.

Most days I can’t stand it any more.

I’m too much of every thing or not enough.

I wish I was never born.

/

I’m ok on a good day, but I struggle. Demons,

in my waking hours, have a go at me for every-little-thing that ever was.

How, do I continue to survive?

Most days, I just want to die.

2.

Some days I feel happy.

content

pleased

proud

relaxed

calm

and secure.

I’m in my garden planting, weeding or harvesting.

And I think about what else I want to do.

Paint

draw

read

make

sculpt

weld

and create.

Money holds me back so I continue watering the garden.

Some days I feel optimistic.

I am convinced I’m going to get that job,

find that financial independence,

not go back to sex work although I miss it terribly.

Some days I don’t think about

pain

loss

fear

humiliation

rejection

or torment.

I’m numb, but at least I’ve stopped

shaking in my boots,

jumping all over the place,

looking around every 5 fucking seconds

or wanting to run.

Some days I feel hope that I won’t

take my life

end up on the streets

be alone and lonely

have no friends

have no lover

or find love.

Whats wrong with me?

I live with trauma, fuck up daily and behave like a bitch –

and I dont think I can be fixed

sometimes.

Some days I’m OK.

I smile

laugh

joke

play

make love

not war.

I try not to let the voices win. I try to

bite my tongue

shut my mouth

hold back tears

try my best

please my man

and stop complaining.

I try not to wait for the end, although I push everyone away – my deluded saving grace

is more likely cutting off my nose, to spite my face.

Some days I think I will survive.

But most days, I still want to die.

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

Sylvia Prefers Madness over Insanity

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.

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

Salt

Grief is pouring out of me
unexpectedly violent, suddenly indecent

assault tempts me to die, stealing whatever else you left behind

my soul, violated

shredded skin, giving away my heart for safety

killing her off slowly

and I can’t bear it any longer – this pain

consumes me, squeezing every last breath I take

to want nondescript now; everything I had left with you

totally and utterly forlorn, I am bereft of any life, when you said
you loved me – that was an evil lie

there is no faith left in my world when I think of you

I am foetal, cradled in my own embryonic arms

closing bloodshot eyes

for darkness to caress my fetid skin, sinking in

lost; longing for you in vain, my grief is pouring out of me

and it won’t stop – I can’t make you stop

broken, and excrutiating to remember

you abandoned me, destroying everything I thought I meant to you

and the salt, knowing you’re laughing – telling how you want torture

before dismembering my body for a barrel

some days the grief is so bad I want to die, check

my self in to the nearest vein before I slice my way in – till I can’t feel you anymore

and watch my self disappear.

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

Imaginary

Silence is White Noise

Photographer: Michael Färber

1.

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.

2.

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.

3.

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.

4.

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.

5.

death, a living Hell
where Hades hath no fury

like a woman

hurt, drowning
in her own tears.

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

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