Saturday, March 2, 2019

Jonathan Butcher


Time Immemorial

I rest that second drink upon that rickety
wooden table over a crudely inscribed
inscription left over a decade ago. I over
hear from the table opposite that most heart
attacks occur on a Monday, and realise
I'm safe for the time being.
To my left, the local frustrated celebrities
gather like autumn sparrows on frayed
telephone lines. Their conversation cuts
across what was once a comfortable silence,
and I remind myself they only have a few years left,
if time decides to be so kind.
My grip slowly weakens around this glass,
a consistent cycle over the last few days.
That taste for outward dwelling now numbed
by that taste; less bitter than anticipated,
but which burns my tongue with the only
argument I'm now prepared to lose.

***
  
The Sitting Room

That scrape of sentiment falls lost
among the decay and rubble of these
buildings. Unable to save even an inch
of mortar, they slowly melt into the
the unforgiving pavement; a betrayal of
their support.
And under our own makeshift shelters,
our walls far more stable than those outside,
we avoid the limp wrecking balls and collapsing
street signs. Our supposed arguments deplete,
and fester in this nest of compliance and
cobwebs.

We slowly count the hours and days
as they fall like a shower of blunt needles,
the ends nestling perfectly into each pore
of our skin; acupuncture for the agreeably
slovenly, as our feet eternally rest upon
cushions stuffed with nothingness.

***
  
Rusted Lines

Back when we would lay upon that
railway embankment, those evenings
the bulk of our days. Those jagged rocks
that would embrace us and prevent any
drunken fall, no matter how hard we
staggered.
Our heads heavy under the pipes, cans
and marker fumes; our bones grinding
against our innocence as they grew.
Our voices now slightly harsher but still
as sharp as ever, but never puncturing
our meaning.
As the sun set we sheltered under
that towering bridge, its walls now forever
stained with our presence like a gallery
of gleeful stubbornness, we attempted
cleanliness later, but two decades on
our fingers still remain stained.

***

Bio: Jonathan Butcher has had work appear in various publications both online and in print including: Outlaw Poetry, Drunk Monkeys, Picaroon Poetry, Popshot, The Transnational, The Morning Star, Ink,Sweat&Tears, Plastic Futures and others. His second chapbook 'Broken Slates' was published by Flutter Press. He lives in Sheffield, England

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