Poetry from Chris Butler

Chris Butler is an illiterate poet shouting from the Quiet Corner of Connecticut. The 8th book in his Poems of Pain series, Montage of Madness, was published by Scars Publications. He is also the co-editor for The Beatnik Cowboy literary journal.

Employees Must Wash Hands
 One hand washes the other,
as the other hand washes the mind.

Still radiating from the mass graves of radium girls,
shining their minor economical sacrifice
with indentured smiles and a can-do attitude,
just so their obsolete creations could be sold.

Imagine employing human beings
to become nuclear nightlights.

Snowflakes (are Not Special)

Social justice warriors,
fair weather warfare
as warlords of words,
whining war whoops
with primal chants
of fascist correctness  
echoed from bullhorns,
virtue smoke signaling
freedom to hate speech,
wearing war paint,
resembling black face.


are big babies born
into the economic spoils
of cold wars,
promised the security
of a nine to five career,
a brand new Cadillac
off the assembly line,
two-point-five children
in a nuclear family
and a suburban castle
with a picket fence,
painted white only.

are bigger babies
raised in the womb
of mother’s basement,
as the outside world
is far too slow paced
compared to their
technology on Adderall,
ubiquitous dumb phones
and the accumulations 
of friends and likes,
as culture is cancelled
for their privilege. 

frolic in the
poppy fields of
nature’s sunflower
petal embrace,
blissfully oblivious
to any sun not
shining smiles,
with every day
better than the last,
until the peaceful
passing reaches
pure perfection.

overdose on too
many blackpills.
a representation of
societal and civilized
degeneration, uninspired
despite wildfires
in the hearts of desire,
with self imposed 
alienation on all
antisocial networks,
until no longer a
negative side effect.

accept a lonely fate
without resentment,
driving down every
dead end road,
tormented by each
unrequited love,
dulling all senses
with substances
in preparation for
pending death without
spiritual redemption, only
only hitting the brakes once they hear the glass break.

Knight and Death

When the white Knight
reaches the rocky beach
at the end of the earth, Death
challenges the unknown soldier
at the end of his last crusade 
to a game of height stakes chess.

Glistening steal armor versus a black cloak.
the game begins with pieces arranged
with endless possibilities, but only one
inevitably…the beheading of god.

Each move is followed by doubt, 
sending another soldier for casualty
as Death casually orders the murder
of the on the front line of frightened with pawns.

The Knight follows the horizontal 
And vertical positioning by the bishops,
neighing with doubt as each shoed
hoof clicks and clatters across the board.

The stampedes charged across the board,
but not in time to save the Queen,
the Knight’s only love, as her cries were left
unheard under the silent reply of god.

Death allows vengeful rage to lead to mistakes,
as the Knight unleashes upon the black army to jestingly
prolong the attacking warrior’s last show of defiance,
reaching the last row in the rear of his opponent,


Death could not envision his army parting 
as the battled field by the raining blitzkrieg of the blood
of an inferior foe, unleashing a tornado of swords.

The inevitability still exists that Death
wins the war every time, but there’s
still a chance for victory in everyday battles.


Catching the Dragon

She loved the drug more than she loved him. He loved the drug more than he loved her. This was not a Biblical revelation, but something both had settled to realize as he watched her shaking hands desperately combing her arms for a usable vein whilst stooped upon the toilet seat. Her bleach blonde streaks of hair slowly molding into dreaded knots, her robe was stained by weeks and months of tomato sauce spills and cigarette burns. One bunny slipper covered her left foot. The uncut toenails on her right foot grew coiled.
As the needle penetrated her skin, he looked away to avoid his own reflection in the misty bathroom mirror. Her bloodshot eyes tweaked their tinge from their sober blue. The dark bags dragged her sockets down. Her cheeks sunk so deep she appeared to be puckering for a model’s kiss to the camera. Her insipid skin haunted him, along with the skeleton pressing against it. Then the red ooze of life climaxed all over the white walls and porcelain. With the decay of time the blemishes became bilirubin.
But when she finished plunging the brown venom and escaped blood back into her stream, the need overcame his brain. He reached for his own needle, resting impatiently on the edge of the sink, and began cooking his own concoction of self-destruction. The charbroiled spoon was filled with brown powder, ready to spread a sugary blizzard over children’s cereal. His juddering hand turned the faucet with the letter C clockwise. He stirred his stew until the ingredients thoroughly mixed. The tip of the thirsty needle sucked the puddle on the spoon dry. With much effort he discovered his last useful cable on his infected arm. He closed his eyes as his bullets of blood shot the mirror like that aftermath of a butcher’s murderous horror scene. The tingling numbness conquered him. For the first time since his last dose he felt life and death pumping through him from his beaten heart. When he turned away from himself and towards her, she was still seated still upon the home’s throne, hunched forward, trying to prevent herself from falling over between each pipe dream.
He loved her more than he loved himself, but he needed the chase more than he needed her. And vice versa.