butter's stuff: the good, the ugly, and the incomplete

[butters]

found this one of mine in tzara's thread back in 2016; completely forgot about it

black cherry heaven

if i were the one
to write about temptation
i'd throw away the apple:
too white-bread american
too sugar-crust, too
naive

i'd think about the snake—
sinuosity
wrapped around the curve of a limb
tongue testing
black eyes shining
perfectly camouflaged
amongst burgeoning fruit

i'd pluck the berries
so dark, so ripe
so rich with worldly knowledge
so full of S-sense—
swollen, smooth, taut flesh
sweet and tart and
such sublime succulence
to pop eyes open wide—
once tasted, never forgotten
no returning to the state of unknowing

spit out the stones
spread the word
bodies and minds are made for this

as the stain runs down his chin
i'd kiss his purpled lips
taste his dark desires
press plump fruits between white thighs
invite him come dine
on black cherry heaven

 

[butters]

and this one!

the salt marsh
is beautiful
when viewed from above
mud and brine transformed
to shining flats etched with fractals
patterns that glitter in the light of day
glimmer
beneath moon and stars

how far away it seems
how long
since first we sprang from soil
tiny rivulets
kissed by grass
trickled
as streams
counting gravel in our beds
swelled
cut through steep-banked valleys
fields of grain alike
felt the rush of power fed by rains
were spurred
by the knowledge of mortality

till we found pleasure
in taking just a little time
to meander in thought
reflect on blue or stormy skies
and how it feels to harbour precious
life that seems to open up
even as we're shaped by silt

till
here we are
spilled, joined,
contemplating beauty in our now
curling round
splitting into intricacies
delicate capillaries
before time and tide claim us
and we reach our endless sea

 

[butters]

wanna talk?
stick to the script
wanna walk?
don't step off the path
wanna think?
go ahead but keep it to yourself
wanna express yourself?
here's a box

*************?
you want to what???

 

[butters]

self-censorship comes harder now
and the grass beckons naked toes
thoughts can't be trapped except by oneself
in the construction of boxes, emotional walls,
wells...
the sorrowing comes
in self-imposed restrictions

 

[butters]

monsoon

nothing's hunting
not in this
a time welcomed, endured

buffalo clot the wetlands
shoulder to shoulder
flank to glistening flank

stray light paints their backs
all else in gradients of shade
patient, stoic, monochrome

fear on hold—
a lion in the rain

 

[Piscator]

monsoon

nothing's hunting
not in this
a time welcomed, endured

buffalo clot the wetlands
shoulder to shoulder
flank to glistening flank

stray light paints their backs
all else in gradients of shade
patient, stoic, monochrome

fear on hold—
a lion in the rain

love the imagery

 

[butters]

love the imagery

thanks, P

 

[oneblueye]

hey ...

here you go, bflagsst, a few either already published or aired online. I've a fair amount of newer material but am considering where to sub or if even to sub at all.

a smallish one:

and still i stare

her hands, her dress, her hair
all fail
to tear my gaze aside

from eyes
whose sadness is a shockwave
breaking over me

they say she's crazy




the somewhere other-looking boy

with filthy hair and mis-matched shoes
eyes soft-focus dreaming blues
this boy is somewhere other-looking

with the mind of a child
and the body of a man
he only knows pleasure
in the palm of his hand
he walks like a sleeper
a smile coasts his lips
and he's treading on water -
a silence in his fingertips

(published in Cold Eels about 4 years back)



wintered

still waiting for the snow to start to fall
you'll miss the bluebells' haze on woodland floor
the sigh of summer breeze across the waves
and let me tell you, watcher, what is more
you'll miss the cider-light of autumn days
their crisper air and sensual delights
their tart perfume and subtle, russet glaze -
you'll miss them, craving only winter's ice



andthen there's this one from approx 6 years back I think, published in Epiphanies and Other Asurdities. Sigh. While I am still fond of it for various reasons, there are changes I would have made looking back at it.

and you and you and you


too soon, too soon, the eagle flew
while you were busy drawing down
the moon into those icy hands,
purchasing one-eyed wisdom
to crowd your poppied mind
until you could no longer stand
but gently tumbled tousled thoughts
to fall asleep in twilight lands,
asleep in the laps of legends.

and, as you dreamt, a river of woe
washed over you and carried you down
to those blasted banks, where the rocking stone
could be toppled by the gentlest touch;
you stroked the smooth-skinned serpent's egg
and, though asleep, you cried real tears
for emotions that somehow eluded you
and for the names of the faces
you seemed to remember
with a distant and palsied anxiety.

and you dreamt you wrote a mystic piece
where vague and shuffling demons danced;
where Odin cast aside his mask
and settled on your shoulders, round
a mammoth task:
a burden irredeemable - a lance;
a lance to bear in diamond jousts,
advancing through the teeth of fear
to seize that chance to win the soured prize.

Methusulah, with his long grey beard
whispered in your sleeping ear
of fools and wise men, sons and daughters
the Devil's love for holy water
of a single, human footprint in the sand;
of the perils of duplicity
the rigours of respectibility
of such passions as can tear apart a man.

and on the sharp infliction of
such sorrows' textured wounds, you woke
with knotted hair and eyes still chasing phantoms;
and even though the darkstream coursed
still dully in your veins, you spoke
of fields of blood and lonely Death's cold tantrums;
and lifelong cravings threatening to choke ...
to strain and break the slenderest of throats.

with that distempered mind you reached
for lightless needles littering the floor;
and, as a stray dog to its vomit, warm,
to poisoned dreams did you return, once more.

i like the way you 'feel' things and I very much enjoy the way you suss them out in written word.

 

[butters]

thanks, oneblueye, for your time and kind reply

 

[butters]

cave paintings

run deeper than chromosomes

compelled, we daub walls, ceilings
paint starry stories
fields of glory
unspoken nightmares
to cover our nakedness

show man a bare cave
and before long his marks are laid upon it
in blood & shit, or gouged
scratched by rock or nail
bone or tusk or claw

driven to stake a claim on time
in voiceless screams ''I live! I LIVE!"
—if only in magnolia emulsion
on-sale moroccan red—
we paint our caves

 

[butters]

for piscator's december 4-liner challenge

yesterday, the world was raw
grey, wet, and a ruin of thin sleet
that filled the sub-light hours
but lacked the will to settle

i filled the belly of the burner
southern-boy got his 'leckie blanket
and the dark hours ceded their frozen grip
to a sunlit, snow-dust morning

even if the chilly artist
with winter-blued eyes
views this sparkling frosting
more as scattered trash

as just another obstacle
to keep his plans at bay
and cannot wait for summer's heat
to burn his bones again

 

[butters]

second for piscator's challenge

6.10 p.m 12.01.20

butter-moon on the rise
its globe lifting free
of bared, tangled trees
to spill light over steeply banked hills

casts its yellow stare over rooftops
heralded by coyote ululations
wild eyes reflecting its shade
even as mercury plummets

and i wonder where he is now
which lines he writes
if poetry leaves him frozen still
latticed ice in his eyes



...............................................


remembering our friend, 1201, and wondering what he's up to nowadays
------------------------------------------------------------------------------



shake that money tree

when an ill wind blows
copper pennies are the last to fall
as for the greens, they're held in tight grip
by bloodless fingers close to wooden chests


----------------------------------------------------------------------------

(relating to the dem-rep stalemate over covid relief package)
----------------------------------------------------------------------------


line by line, the poets wreak
their havoc, clear, in words less meek;
assorted rears with saucy cheek
lit poets seek. lit poets, seek!

like tambourines tap out the time
our inner ears line up each rhyme
and if we fail to reach sublime
our critics chime... our critics chime.

december is a time for cheer
if we can move beyond the fear
of covid, snow and dark things near.
protect your dear! protect your dear!

when all is said and all is done
send ignorance, quick, on the run;
for hes and shes, each lord and bum,
the vaccines come! the vaccines come!!!
__________________



december's like a limerick:
a christmas tree that drops too quick
and sheds its needles that will stick—
our feet to prick. our feet to prick.

december's like a tasteless joke
with blazing lights and tawdry cloak;
all glitz and pomp an eye to poke;
commercial-choke. commercial-choke.

december's time to wrap up well
in ugly sweaters made in hell
and shoppers hastening, pell-mell—
hot market's bell. hot market's bell.

december's time to meet the grinch
who'd steal the joys, small pleasures pinch!
so just shut out the 'happy' lynch—
we'll never flinch, we'll never flinch!
__________________
.


'countdown to christmas' list

cut wood; unblocked pipe;
reseat dislodged fascia;
worm dog; charge truck;
defrost turkey—self-baster;

set bricks—mortar
(weather still permitting);
choose gifts; brine bird;
tactfulness is fitting;

make time, check jars
stacked on shelves downstairs;
cut cloth; find books;
clean house, be prepared;

find tree; cut tree;
unpack decorations;
cook food; buy wine;
embrace this isolation!

----------------------------------

yesterday was a gift
of sunlight and sound
colour, movement, scent
discovery through observation

no cold wind, no sky's oppression; instead
a shoaling susurration of birds
a hundred thousand voices layered
verdant grass alight with sunbrites

a day of doing, living, breathing
away from exploding numbers
the new normal of infection's might
bitter root of so much sorrow

a day to count our blessings
recoup pre-covid days.
today, the sun is choked
in lowlight no bird sings

 

[butters]

piscator's november 3-liners

terrible tuesday?

every vote counts
every vote should be counted
hopes for the best--expects the worst
__________________




corona virus, evictions, elections
brain bogged in gloom
november starts sunny, at least
__________________



cattle and land don't vote
a lot of empty red
but such pretty shades of blue
__________________



blue skies
time to breathe
even with a mask on
__________________



it's raining leaves
the sun shines & fire's prepped—
jack's visiting tonight
__________________

 

[butters]

trees

winter wade
knee-deep in slow waters
colour of oiled steel
that catch sharp glances of sun

they stand and stare
at snowless blue skies
silt and little fishies
between their toes

 

[46n2]

and still i stare

her hands, her dress, her hair
all fail
to tear my gaze aside

from eyes
whose sadness is a shockwave
breaking over me

they say she's crazy

>>>

I like that a lot. I absolutely LOVE how it's all creepy and 1st person but then that final line. That is stunning and completely reformats the "intent".

If it were longer it would suck. But it's not. Nailed it.

 

[butters]

thanks for reading and the feedback

 

[butters]

Piscator's 5-line challenge

fire, ice, and malice (i.e the trials of Bambi)

a dear deer with sad mummy issues
had everyone reaching for tissues
he learned that thin ice
is not very nice
but grew to be king, as supposed to


-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Lyricalli's limerick challenge

Cathy, come home

there was a young orphan, Heathcliff,
adopted yet scorned by the spiffs;
the love of his life
was another man's wife
it all ended badly, forthwith!






the love song of alfred j prufrock
posed question on question--a mind-rock
his marmalade phase
his mermaids au-lait
had spoons rubbing shoulders with smog


prufrock has us gassed on a table
where ladies and ladies enable
the gossip of days
the daydreaming haze
where mermaids are more than mere fable





like cream

this spirit will rise to the heights
no matter the slurs and the slights
no keeping us down
we'll smile where you frown
you don't get to drown out our rights



---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
10-liner challenge (angie or P? forgot )


the hotter it gets, the more he writ(h)es
the greater his urge to flex in sexuality
muscles, rampant flesh and mind

his libido a bristling wildflower
a purple field-thistle
invasive weed to my more molten state

morning dew bemocks this sweating skin
craving different blow jobs from above
everything about me wilted, limp

our only trysts beneath the fans, set high




June's arrived, that moody, sultry whore;
she have your eyeballs sweating, then for fun
she'll coldly piss on you and that's before
she'll smile in perfect blue—she's just begun

to toy with your reactions: perspiration
accepted as her due, your energy
sapped, that act redacted as frustration
drives you to seek shelter from her glee.

You wake to gentled dawn, this clovered yard—
her innocence a ruse, a worn canard!

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

5 senses challenge

Sight: wild animal
Sound: footsteps
Smell: toasted marshmallow
Taste: water
Touch: fur


you prowl the smooth-worn hallway boards–
midnight's animal
whose breathy kisses swift betray
the sticky fate of mallow'd prey

yet know to taste the moonlit rain
to lingerlick your naked flesh
and stroke your darkly dripping fur
does more to rouse mine inner, wildling cur

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------


green bf's forever

bevy of tender pea-lin's on the chainlink fence
sweet and earnest, clasp their peers
lean pale new bonnets close to gossip
bright breezes set them dancing




4 years roll one to the next
white, blue, brown, golden
like forever and no time at all
high on the green hill
with you

here's to many more



3-line challenge

he bends, grunts, sweats
worms dive for cover
winter's belly shrinks daily




his head's newsletter--
an almanac of whats
whens, wheres, currently delayed
due to weather

meantimes

his body's newsletter
lists a catalogue of aches
headlined in bright colours
of "OUCH!"




when it comes to Love,
love,
that poet's mandate flies
full sail:
show, don't tell

you're at the helm
come hell or high water
with a kind hand on the wheel
and fresh pancakes for breakfast
steering us right

Happy Valentine's Day, mister




Day sleeps late
beneath a dirty duvet
red-eyed coals still twinkle
in a grey bed of ash
but the hours are mild
and dreams yawn on




six lines a tribute to lengthening days
to lives cut short in strengthening light
to burgeoning plans, fresh bud of ideas
to those valuing truth in a casting of votes
to exhumed soil watered by tears
to fires that burn through ice overnight




though tree limbs still stark
and skies weighed by tears
shafts of sunlight hit greenery
air's alive with birds of different feathers
and the broom blooms bright


-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

baretender, pour me an english gin
with tonic in to brighten it
so i may raise a glass
to the spirit of this lady
who will always be
right here
signing these walls





if there is a hereafter
may your youthful nature shine
your words bring smiles to the ears of gods
and--with all past sorrows slip't--
may you dance in the light forever


r.i.p Annie

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

me 'n' the dawg took a walk around the ponds
the pastures, woodland in our search
finally found it, right along the drive's fenceline--
the perfect goldilocks tree



bits down my boots
bits in me bra
this tree is THE BESTEST
so happy. Ta Da!!!!




undressed the tree and swept
away those little bits that pierce
our skin—reminders of a year so desperately discarded

but we know no amount of sweeping
can brush it all away. be sure to wear your slippers, for now.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------



hey, 2020,
sulking all day
grey, gloomy, rain on the way—
let the door hit your arse on the way out




he serves us breakfast
we eat, chatter, sip on hot coffee
loved ones are missed but cherished regardless
and our own love is the fire, banked and steady,
ready to burn bright with pursed lips of encouragement





Fourth christmas spent in another land
far from loved ones, close with loved ones,
distant or near, absent or gone;
love knows what it knows—abides patient and content.

 

[HarryHill]

..

green bf's forever

bevy of tender pea-lin's on the chainlink fence
sweet and earnest, clasp their peers
lean pale new bonnets close to gossip
bright breezes set them dancing

..
love that line missus

 

[butters]

..

..
love that line missus

 

[butters]

Committed with intent

Shores don't feel rejected
when tides pull out
without a backwards glance

nor horizons sense abandonment
when Sol falls away to the darkside
without a word;

fields don't resent betrayals in
each season's loss of interest;
flowers feel no social shame
when bees refuse to kiss them;
leaves don't mourn a poignant loss
when winds withhold their animated touch.

Cold-shoulders and denied intimacies
inhabit the realms of human hearts:
confusion, fear and shame,
hurt anger⁠—ultimately sorrow⁠—
invoked by small cruelties
committed with intent.

 

[butters]

he's a quiet man
out of the wind
unruffled by temper's vagaries
a stillness
in which to lose myself
smooth as an old stone
cool water above, behind, beyond me
the act of breathing forgotten






--------------------------------------
'out of the wind' was the inspiration, the rest is all fictional

 

[Piscator]

Committed with intent

Shores don't feel rejected
when tides pull out
without a backwards glance

nor horizons sense abandonment
when Sol falls away to the darkside
without a word;

fields don't resent betrayals in
each season's loss of interest;
flowers feel no social shame
when bees refuse to kiss them;
leaves don't mourn a poignant loss
when winds withhold their animated touch.

Cold-shoulders and denied intimacies
inhabit the realms of human hearts:
confusion, fear and shame,
hurt anger⁠—ultimately sorrow⁠—
invoked by small cruelties
committed with intent.

I won't like this, but I did.
Too true, been there, done that, but trying to reform.

 

[butters]

damn, need to do some cataloguing. for now those, this live write tweaked after the fact.

old ghosts

when first our ghosts find us
haunt us
they're restless
hungry things
greedy to feed
off our fear, distress

we oblige
pile that table high

time and familiarity
wear them down
till no more than echoes;
night air
across a tooth's empty socket
or the top of a drain pipe;
an almost-shadow;
the memory of an ache
once bone-deep but now
a dull creak—
just a copy
of a copy
of a copy
faded shreds of a lost dog poster

the years teach us
live with them
pity them
grow to wonder
just how alive we'd feel
if they disappeared
ghosted us

 

[butters]

kinda working on this one


version 1

David bowie's brother

insatiably curious child
split between two families
opened his brother's mind
to new worlds
via the medium of art
music, books, films
all alien to small suburban living

months here, there,
s p l i t the boy
his behaviour
sharing and loss
constant companions

escaping meant flying to the sky
the sun in his eyes
and after the war
a diagnosis
schizophrenic
doomed to spend his remaining days
in one spot
alternately flying
or feeling the poison
of heated winds in his face

his younger brother
a collector of personalities
never entirely sure of who he was
nor especially caring for long
enjoyed a freedom to explore skies of his own
art his escape
his expression
a spectrum child
fractures unconfined to a hospital bed



version 2


David Bowie's brother

insatiably curious child
split between two families
opened his brother's mind
to strange new worlds
via the medium of art
music, books, films
all alien to small suburban living

months here, there,
s p l i t the boy
his behaviour
sharing and loss
constant companions

escape meant flying
the sun in his eyes

and after the war
a diagnosis
schizophrenia
doomed his allotted span
to the safety of one spot
alternately soaring
or feeling the poison
of heated winds in his face
as he fell

*his younger brother
a collector of personalities
enjoyed freedom
explored skies of his own—
the arts his flight-path to expression—
a spectrum child
fractures unconfined to a hospital bed






*maybe drop the last s entirely

 

[butters]

it is said...

authenticity comes from reality
and poets bleed
every day
reopen their veins
for the truth in blood
drain themselves
seeking reconciliation

my own life, too
has black experiences
i choose to leave behind
find my words
reflect instead
those happier days
before and after the dark ages
my inks of other colours
with only splashes
of occasional red

perhaps they are braver than i
but this is how i survive