four poems
by Jonathan Butcher
Let Them Sleep
The colours upon railway line walls
slowly glisten under sheens of frost,
which render them unpaintable
until summer. The partially twisted
wire fence offers a cradle on which
to perch, our bottles precariously
balanced as our feet kick up dust
into clouds of nothing.
On the outskirts of this lair,
the heads full of contradicting thoughts
revel in slumber, no more active
than when awake; our fear of waking
them keeps the raising of fires confined,
allowing embers to take their natural
course, without the risk of backdrafts.
The rusted spray cans carefully discarded
into concrete troughs, displays the more
mundane discipline within our ranks.
The rattle of railway tracks stays within
our confines, the distant lights of the
surrounding abodes only flicker,
and these murals take on a different
meaning when viewed from a different angle.
The Same Line Repeated
They concede so easily each time,
the same lines are repeated with rapid
persuation, but without the positive slant
to persuade; only an accepted negative,
like two magnets dragged from a drained canal.
We whisper each line back to ourselves,
to check if repetition muted those words
into sense, yet they still narrated the same
backwards cesspit, which revelled in its stench
and was still no less shallow.
Back and forth they are absorbed
like piranha bones through seabed sponges
they choke on what is left of dignity
and pride, leave a coughed-up puddle
of nothing but confusion.
Celebration
Each side of the street carries
its own litter; shards of reflective
foil offering mirror images
of these past festivities,
withered bodies wrapped
in bunting and drenched
in punch; forty-eight hours of state
funded escape.
The ones left over sit upon
the remains of melted milk crates,
like over exhausted lifeguards,
fishing for the lost from polluted
waters. The fairy lights entwined
within street trees blink in morse code,
a message now misinterpreted,
its meaning long forgotten.
And out of the dregs we all return,
refreshed from the wayward cheers,
which were absorbed into badly maintained
parks. The contents of plastic vessels
which lined our throats and drowned
the usual verbalised flow of thoughts,
which for once we managed to contain,
if only for this weekend.
Breakaway
The same day yet again,
brandashing routine
like an overused mop bucket,
another fifteen minute crevice
in which to eat, smoke and piss
with perfect synchronicity.
A slight glimpse of a magpie
tearing dandelions from pavement
cracks shadowed by an ebb of ascending
barbed wire offers a vein attempt
to maintain the slackened grip
on nature.
The beige polished slabs,
that lead me back to the coutless
floors of broken elevators
and windows which fear reflection
now feel unsteady under my feet;
those slivers of time which are gradually
thrown, are only captured once they expire
Photo of Jonathan Butcher
BIO: Jonathan Butcher has had poems appear in various print and online publications including, The Morning Star, Mad Swirl, Drunk Monkeys, Cajun Mutt Press, Unlikely Stories Mark V, The Abyss, and others. His fourth chapbook 'Turpentine' was published by Alien Buddha Press. He is also the editor of online poetry journal Fixator Press.