Relatively Relative

In those gardens, tucked away from the city,
one of the main attractions when visiting you;
the affluence that laced this air with distorted tendrils,
a world away from my usual backdrop, and somewhat
strangely more exciting.

After we left that council funded attempt at tranquility,
we crossed the tree lined roads, that living room 
now just a fragmented memory, brandy snaps and whiskey 
in decorated glasses, your grin just slightly terrifying, overseeing 
everything.

Those stairs to steep for comfort, complimenting
the vertigo that was often caused by your presence, 
which left us all way too early, your wisdom expanded 
over three decades, only spoken in half drunk
conversation, your echo only ever intended to be 
a memory. 


No Chance of Rest

Together we gather, encapsulated in this web,
that hangs heavy with grit smeared rain drops
between broken branches of yew, 
still not ripe enough yet to carve into arrows.

This snare trap of time, with inheritance 
we never wished to accept. 
Our recreation once again cut short;
only the higher echelons have parks 
that remain open all evening. 

We retain strength in thimble sized vails,
the same tasks repeating like decreasing
circles in puddles of oil. 
The same days, weeks and hours 
shuffled like wine-stained playing cards. 

This handed down grind, which somehow
evolved into gratefulness, 
embraced with broken arms, 
which we still manage to retain a grip
on for long enough, and to eventually 
suggest a change. 


Failed Excuse

It doesn't seem so quaint and fine,
once it's crawling across your doorstep,
interfering with the breakfast tables;
residing in cupboards and meterboxes,
rifling through handbags and trouser pockets.

Eyes, however, suddenly begin to remove their glaze,
once fabrics and prescriptions beguin 
to burn at the edges and crumble 
at the slightest touch. 
The excuses now run painfully thin, 
like water pouring through crumbling dam cracks.

And now they claim protest,
but only with trepidation, 
a spare hour amongst hypocrisy, 
that still fails to convince them.
they now stir tea in broken cups,
"it will soon pass", they all promise.


The Same Plan

In this equal space, the clash of church
bells and car speakers, screams and barks
entwined like daisy chains around 
the neck of this city,

Washing hung with decomposing pegs,
casting secrets over ancient brick walls
smudged with soot like ash stained tables,
steam from gutters creating a convenient 
fog.

The buildings scraped empty and regenerated,
a crude taxidermy, as cracks widen within 
windows, telephone wires like buntin,
decorated with flags of this disposition. 

Another promised plan, a plaster
over gangrenous wounds, dangles
mid-air but never reaches the ground;
our mouths remain open, but it never
passes our throat. 

-

Jonathan Butcher has had poetry appear in various publications including The Morning Star, Popshot, Picaroon Poetry, The Transnational, Cajun Mutt Press, Mad Swirl, and others. His fourth chapbook 'Turpentine' was published by Alien Buddha Press.