Each page of that good book
is kept pristine, misquoted only
at the most opportune times.
He keeps each shirt starched,
in perfect rows like polished armour.
And when questioned, he only ever
acknowledges their backs, as he dresses
up division with second hand logic.
his words falling like torn confetti,
that scrapes the ground like his witherd
His voice drenches out others in sewage
filled waves, his false respect for opponents
slowly resurfaces. Given a yard he could
vomit a mile, given an enema, he could reside
in a match box.
About Jonathan Butcher:
Jonathan Butcher is a poet based in Sheffield, England. He has had work
appear in various print and online publications including: Popshot, Sick-Lit,
The Transnational, The Morning Star, Plastic Futures, Picaroon Poetry, Amaryllis
and others. His second chapbook 'Broken Slates' has been published by
Mornings were always hell and the dismal view a little more bearable when waking up next to a good looking woman. Or as my luck had been go...
We are at the roulette table in the Bellagio. The computerized one because it has seats and lower betting minimums. A mother and daugh...
The cavity where your heart once lied now cradles a colony of maggots boiling in frenzied feast finally giving your life purpose ...
The bones of dead fish bleach in the sun at the edge of Salton Sea. We hadn’t seen a single sign of life on the way over here. I was stayin...