Tuesday, October 20, 2015

poem || Jonathan Butcher

Practice Room

Another morning waking /ourselves like ships//
dust filled mattress/the orange outside clubs past
walls no imprint would loiter outside the dilated pupils
as the dignitaries../who would attempt to force themselves
through the passing girls/much the single glazed
window annoyance of the feasting rats would gate-crash
our morning. And we are welcomed/who hung like bloated
skin tight hour// grinding their jaws under the memories of
last../the products they turned their misdemeanours
side eyes to/their heads hungry/our heads like an oven

limb to face contact/a blast of iced air/gain much needed
refinements of these holes/Last night's attempts hoping
the others here/ashtrays and pissed//the outside we believed 
strings now hanging and leave us with no tune/could emptier
vessels/We bid farewell past curbs littered with green plastic
as those rusted gates/meal cartons/and those left crying
enticing at 1am/all this time the wind never changed persuasion
at this our pleading that seemed to register/and again carried
forward torn/we then turn over/follow your actions/our own sweet
like false shadows/bound by empty in the wrong light//..

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