Poetry Blog by James Butler

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Chapped Lips


Do not let my hand slip into yours
if you do not want it to.
Do not let my arms embrace around
while my heart races in my mouth
begging yours to maybe do the same.
Thinking of you when I came.
Feeling my eyes burn with tiredness
whilst I wait for your text back.
Knowing it wont come,
unless it does.

In that case, i’m inspired.

I will reach for you.
Leap into any situation
just ...

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Jasmine

  Jasmine and I lay in the flowerbed

amongst the buds about to bloom.

We moved delicately,
crushing shoot
pressing seed.
Enticing attention of the ranger.

Flesh was ripped by teeth and thorns.
Pain was no dam
no issue.

I tasted Jasmine,
pricked her.
Allowed scent to fill senses.

Only Jasmine grew in that bed.

© James Butler 2011

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Toilet Tissues & Seawalls

 

We’re not concrete in a seawall.

People are alive
not cemented together.
We move, sway with the quakes
bend with the wind.
Hold fast.
Until the wave smashes us apart.
Rips our walls
tugs us out to drift.
Wipes its but
washes its hands
and flushes us anew.
We rebuild our seawalls,

prepare to weather the next.

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It Always Rains on Fiddlers Ferry

  It Always Rains on Fiddlers Ferry (version 1)

 

Fiddlers Ferry powered the lights in our house.
It also kept the TV on and the tape recorder. 
Later, it kept the discs in the Playstation spinning
and my iPod charged.

I remember being sat in my granddad’s van
in the passenger seat on a booster.
We used to drive out that way before nursery,
let the pidgins out before rac...

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Am I Dead?

  Am I Dead?

 

We’re all going to die.

It’s not nice I know

but we’ve all got to face it.

Death’s coming and he burns

like time and the fat in your 

arteries that will one day

Stop your heart. Then spit

As you incinerate on a bed of fire

and your ashes lay forgotten on

a mantlepiece.

 

So what can we do?

 

How can I be happy knowing I ...

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I'm a Prick

  I get confused when poetry compares women to flowers.

I guess men waste words on paper

just for the sake of getting laid.

 

It isn’t like she is actually chlorophyl or petals.

He can’t promise eternal love

or endless orgasms.

 

I recycle every soppy poem I write.

 

Maybe I’ve never been in love,

or I’m just not a prick.

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Mormon

I met two Mormons in the street the other day.

They asked me about my beliefs

so I told them I was an Atheist and Gay.

They beat me up,

stole my dignity.

Just as Joseph Smith stole theirs.

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New York Snow

entry picture

New York Snow

 

New York City 

youʼre so pretty 

Shitty, in the dirty snow. 

Your buildings, higher than 

the ambition of those you attract. 

Your people, so alone 

yet so together in the snow. 

In New York snow. 

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Underage and Pregnant: A Nativity

  Underage and Pregnant: A Nativity

 

Joseph turned and looked at Mary.

She glanced up at him, whimpered,

clasped her stomach. 

“Ow”, she whispered.

“What's wrong”, slurred Joseph.

“Nothing.” Mary looked down,

back at the unopened letter.

 

The DNA test results laid within.

Joseph knew the baby wasn’t his

but insisted on making sure.

Mary also...

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Poetry is Theft

Poetry is theft.
It takes an act
diminishes it, drags from context.
The poet makes a verse
binds it to a page
locked up in a book.
The book is released to the mainstream.
Sold, repackaged and shipped out.
The poem is put on a spoon
and forced down the mouths of 6J.
Analysed in exam.
Context forgotten.
We live in an Eden
where shackles keep you free.

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Sonnet Yeah

 


Shall I compare thee to a summers day? 

Errr no. 

Iʼm not so cheesy as to talk about the bloody, blooming, buds of may 

Or how our summers have gone away. 

Iʼm not going to say how perfect you are 

Or how nature pales in comparison. 

Iʼm not going to reflect on our travels 

Or compare our time together to heaven. 

You donʼt need to...

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New York, New York - 11/09/01

The natureless jungle wakes up.
A whole world full
of grey and black battery humans
making their way to 40-story coops.

 

The last tent city has gone.
No real artists remain in Greenwich.
The poor are shipped up to Harlem
and bussed back in overalls.

 

8:46 AM.
Reports of a plane, a tragic accident.
The worlds media focuses in,
expands the microcosm.

 

...

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Mcdonalds Sky

entry picture

I stood by Mcdonalds the day the sky fell in.

Business as usual in “the town centre”.
Buy. Sell. Buy. Sell.

The world a watercolour
of Primark and Topshop fashion.

The bottled tans of the young
covered the pale petals of innocence.

The Big Issue sellers and
their modern street performance.

The moans of the old and the
stench of dignity lost with a dribble.

All ...

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JambutJames ButlerMcdonalds

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