Jonathan Butcher- Three Poems

Sailing 

We would carry ourselves like ships, 

past the queues outside clubs, past

the gangs who would loiter outside the

fried chicken shops, who would attempt

to converse with the passing girls, much

to the annoyance of the feasting rats.

Past the doormen, who hung like bloated

visions of death, grinding their jaws under

the influence of the products they turned their

bulbous blind eyes to, their heads hungry

for any kind of limb-to-face contact, if only

just to pass the time. 

Then in the confinements of these holes,

we stand in packs, hoping the others here 

will stop to drain the strangeness we believed 

we had to offer, but who just wonder past,

oblivious to our yearnings, and leave us

seeking even emptier vessels.

We then sailed past curbs littered with green plastic

bottles, empty meal cartons and those left crying

In heaps, and all this time the wind never changed

direction, despite our pleading that never seemed

that genuine, and again we are carried forward, 

our sails never torn. 

Why Eric Left

He decided to leave us with the smallest

amount of grace. His reputation un-marred

except for this little indiscretion.

Found in his wardrobe in the most uncompromising 

of positions; a practical joke that never reached the

punch line (according to his father at least).

We had not laid eyes upon him for years, but always

heard his voice, like a faint breeze through rape seed

fields, when ever his name was mentioned.

The very fields we had watched him burn and trample 

as we cheered at his heroics, that he fueled with 

his vodka bottle and joint; as he shimmered in our

compliments, illuminating our deadened afternoons.

And in that wardrobe, he would have reflected on our

praise and loyalty, his last gleam of dignity, holding 

on to his well earned title, or so we hoped.

Our Last Song

The joyful busker stands tuneless,

but still drawing crowds outside the

second-hand store, the wet pavement

of the city's street now different this

afternoon.

Stolen slang and over-polished words

are spread across billboards and half

torn posters like a scripture no-one can

muster up the effort to preach.

The surrounding bushes that mask 

a sea of hypodermics and nestling 

rats, offers no respite for running

thieves; the only available shelter

around here costs forty pounds a night

at least.   

Ourselves, however, are no longer a

nightmare, unlike we were told before

our heads were fully formed, and were able to

run on rain drenched roads, our sins reduced

yet still choking on our legend. 

Jonathan Butcher has had work appear in various print and online publications. His debut chapbook 'Concrete Cradle' has been published by Fire Hazard Press.