Poetry from Chris Butler

Young skinny white guy (in his 20s) with short brown hair, a small beard and mustache, and a dark colored tee shirt reading "Anthony Burgess' A Clockwork Orange." Black and white photo, he's on a patio in front of a concrete wall.

Non-Playable Character

I am the NPC

in someone else’s reality,

a side character

in someone else’s story.

There is no dragon

to slay

and no maiden

to lay

in the castle dungeon,

just a prison.

There are no quests,

no mythical and magical lands,

no courage in my chest

and no powers from my hand.

There is no consequence

for my absence or presence,

as just another glitch

in the matrix.

Exploding Head Syndrome

In my tired mind,

Chris crossed wires

create copper currents,

infusing blown fuses

with stuttering static

synapses shocking

the senses into

hallucinations

of white noise

black outs.

Proud

Supremacists

are so proud

of their race

and western 

skin that they

never hide 

their hate,

yet are so 

afraid of being

replaced they 

mask the

shame of their

anonymous

face.

The Little Tribe 

The sons of the Sun,

mourning each morning

whilst patiently awaiting

for the Father to awake

and rise above

the horizon,

bringing rays of life

to all the world,

taking its daily stroll

across the pompous,

cumulonimbus clouds

of heaven,

finally settling

for its daily rest

in the west.

The daughters of the Moon,

helping the Mother

shine through the darkness,

cycling through its various

forms of crescents,

halves and wholes,

enlarging for the harvests,

birthing new life

between periods of blood red

celestial bodies,

only eclipsed for moments

by earth’s birthing dirt.

This is how it has always been,

and always will be until the end.

Deathbed

When you die,

life doesn’t flash

before your eyes.

There is only

the void at the end

of delirium’s tunnel.

The surge of

vital organs

powering down,

oxygen deprivation

strangling the brain

and intravenous

morphine drips…

…illusions,

delusions,

and auditory

and visual

veridical

hallucinations,

feels like spiritual

transformation,

providing false hope

when one experiences

and witnesses

ghostly gods

who blame your ills

on your sinful life,

accompanied by

apparitions of

angels soaring around

the room like doves

trapped indoors

in a world of invisibly

clean windows,

and loved ones lost,

promising a second

for reunification

and reconciliation,

coaxing you to follow

the burning light,

at the top of the

never ending staircase

that is revamped into 

an everlasting slide

of terminal lucidity

for eternity.

Chris Butler is an illiterate poet and an anorexic starving artist. His 10 book “Poems of Pain” series, including Artsy Fartsy (Alternating Current Press), BUMMER (Scars Publications), Neurotica (Down in the Dirt) and DOOMER (Ethel Press) was completed in 2023 with the publication of the final collection in the series, Beatitudes (Dakota Publishing Company). He also co-wrote a book of poems, Dead Beats, with Dr. Randall K. Rogers. He has been the co-editor of The Beatnik Cowboy literary journal since 2015.

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