Poetry Blog by James Butler
Weekend jobs on New York Snow (Tue, 24 May 2016 09:53 pm)
on Jasmine (Sat, 28 May 2011 01:22 pm)
on Jasmine (Fri, 27 May 2011 04:38 pm)
on Jasmine (Fri, 27 May 2011 01:23 pm)
on Jasmine (Wed, 25 May 2011 04:39 pm)
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
Saturday 7th January 2012 6:57 pm
Jasmine and I lay in the flowerbed
amongst the buds about to bloom.
We moved delicately,
Enticing attention of the ranger.
Flesh was ripped by teeth and thorns.
Pain was no dam
I tasted Jasmine,
Allowed scent to fill senses.
Only Jasmine grew in that bed.
© James Butler 2011
Tuesday 24th May 2011 6:09 am
We’re not concrete in a seawall.
People are alive
not cemented together.
We move, sway with the quakes
bend with the wind.
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.
Thursday 21st April 2011 4:18 pm
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...
Sunday 30th January 2011 4:23 pm
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
So what can we do?
How can I be happy knowing I ...
Monday 24th January 2011 3:13 am
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.
Wednesday 29th December 2010 6:21 pm
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.
Monday 6th December 2010 5:14 am
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.
Sunday 5th December 2010 4:48 pm
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.
Saturday 4th December 2010 2:38 am
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.
We live in an Eden
where shackles keep you free.
Thursday 25th November 2010 3:27 pm
Shall I compare thee to a summers day?
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...
Tuesday 16th November 2010 9:30 pm
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.
Reports of a plane, a tragic accident.
The worlds media focuses in,
expands the microcosm.
Monday 15th November 2010 2:43 pm
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.
Sunday 14th November 2010 9:53 pm