The places there are that go forgotten
Through alleys at night down and to the left
Dim neon, wires, cracked pavement and smoke
Something always more obscure
Hidden further back and under
Than the most secret thing you know
The city turns in on itself at a point
Where places once known become strange and distant
As if despite their nearness
They've grown so very far
Ever churning and rearranging
As if with a mind of it's own
The city is restless
Stretching out that it might breathe
A cool breath of the still night air
Beneath the waiting stars

As the new day dawns
A feather floats slowly on
Cloud reflected seas.

Poetry is a release,
of all emotion and thoughts.
Poetry is a safe place,
to escape from all.
Poetry is freedom,
to speak your mind.

Poetry is subjective,
different to each person.
Poetry is forgiving,
you need not be good.
Poetry has no favourites,
it is a friend to all.

What’s spiritual worth
We can’t speak for any Other,
If we’re just Alive

Actions speak louder,
Good as gold is heart of good.
Life is now not ‘fore.

Love becomes FortNight
Games made to play ‘til it ends
our Worth’s dimming light.

We all still living
Can’t speak for the soul still here
Must be here to steer

Take hold of your wheel...!

He has this . . . Hunger like
Hurricane Hips interpreting endangered
wanton meanings of lustful touch
Starving eyes wanting

He has this . . Culpable shame
that’s  relative to the Red-Hot Religions
of sailors, muscled maritimes
showers of spit and ****
storms of guy-gravy
and then the little girl inside,
that darling damnation,
leaves him to those parched cats eyes

The panther's eager lips
that somehow rescues him sexually
With cold reptilian offerings
spires and skies which takes him home

away & aware he’s one of them:
chestnuts from china
The Buffalo’s bride
Lost in one salted heavenly hell

He has that . . . Craving,
A ***** for Jackal-harsh joys
but the lipstick love of sinful men
like magnets to his mad blindness
its ***** and biohazard truths
Still resounds in the black poetry
A stain of empty pews

Hearts
designed by desires over
Sins & desperations both
an epic dirge, some think
which will later play in a temple
That will sink darkly, singing
a Red-Hot  requiem reckoning

for all who are
lost in their lust
and the god-awful truth of it,
In beings lost  
Never having even begun
To know Love
Not cross…

Maybe there must be Existence
For Non-Existence to exist,
Life for Death,
Death for Life,
Finiteness for Infinity,
You can work out the rest.

Love and hate, pain and pleasure,
All a continuum,
All inevitable.

Existence cannot be denied
Even if we live in a virtual world:
A fantasy penned
By who knows who?
For thinking is being,
We all know that.

So enjoy while you can
Before you get written
Out of the script.
Spring turns to summer now
In a seemingly endless circle
Even a globe.
Make the most of it
And party on
As best you can
In your own unique way.

Paul Butters

© PB 25\4\2020.