Monday, 26 June 2017

2 poems by Jonathan Butcher

Back Then


Those crisp mornings we would
move at our own pace; no need
for alarms drilled into our temples.
The newspapers skip-read at
our leisure, the hangovers almost
welcome.

We would drift from each
room with perfect calm. Those tranquil
notes from raindrops and the tick of the
unfed electric meter, like a malfunctioning
metronome that would keep our boredom
in time with it's beat.

The evening was our only commitment,
our choice of business mixed only with
pleasure, our only hardship was planning over
glasses and ashtrays how to exit this glorious mess.






Jonathan Butcher is a poet based in Sheffield, England. He has had poetry appear in various print and online Journals including: Popshot, Ink, Sweat&Tears, Elbow Room, Your One Phone Call, Mad Swirl, The Transnational and others. His second chapbook 'Broken Slates' was published by Flutter Press.


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First published 30 June 2016

Night Shift


We would walk through those narrow grey
streets each evening, oblivious to the
inconvenience of our presence. The houses
like sandcastles ripe for kicking, which when
unlit seemed to lose their purpose.

We could almost hear the twitch of eyelids
flicker, their faces at intervals plastered to
those pristine windows; we convinced
ourselves their heads slept in comas,
whilst we continued to scrape our heels.

Each one bound in holy matrimony; entrenched
foundations built with broken bricks. The premature
lines that danced across each face, filled with
blackened waters like neglected canals, in which
I would never dare (nor care) to swim.

That breeze passes slowly, indicative of these
streets, as we unbound those memories from
their corroded chains. As our feet sink into
our own foundations, we slowly peel our
smirking faces from our windows.



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