It doesn’t really matter to me
How the universe came to be
Or whether God even exists.
I care nothing about kings and queens
Or anyone “in power”.

For I’m “The One”
Who leads this Life.
No-one else but me.
However impressive you are
You still are not Myself.

All that counts are the people and things I Love,
Even Like.
So if you’ve got nothing to offer me
Get on your bike.

No man is an island, so they say.
Yes, I’m not independent in every way.
But I’m an individual who is true to my soul.
To remain unbrainwashed is always my goal.

They try to make us run with the crowd,
Like sheep or lemmings led into the cloud.
It’s Media Hypnosis
Through that gleaming TV.
Only by being ourselves
Will we ever be Free.

Paul Butters

I approached the garden
That lay outside the city wall
The arched gate loomed over me
Overgrown with roots and tendrils

As I entered the air felt different
The sky itself seemed to twist and swirl
All around me autumn leaves
Gently floated to the ground

I found this strange
Seeing as it was nearly spring
As I listened closer
I could hear a voice in the breeze

Continuing through the garden
I saw many strange plants and trees
Some of which I recongnized
As being long extinct

I came to a clearing
With a ancient Armorn tree
That presided over
A circular reflective pool

Looking further, I noticed a figure
Sitting on the edge of the pool
It appeared to be a veiled woman
Holding some strange form of harp

Only then did I realize
That the voice on the air was hers
She sang a sweet sunken song
Lost in a bygone age

Though the language she sung in
Was entirely foreign to me
I understood her words
In a primordial way

Her words and resonant music
Touched me and told me of things
Things that had both happened
And things that were yet to come

I sat down in the garden
She payed me no heed
Nor did I want her to
I simply wished to listen

To the blind songstress of the garden

Good Witches do not

wear dresses of peonies

they do not say

“I am a Good Witch”

they are not

caricatures of happiness


Good Witches wear

sunsets like cloaks

they run with

bare feet

exposed limbs

and snake hair

through forests and foggy minds


They jump over stone walls

laughing as the

sticks crack

beneath them

they drum their midnight black claws

against tables

as if they were raised by wolves

and divine your future

in sidewalk cracks

modern-day Cassandras,

better listen

listen


they do not say

“I am a Good Witch”

they smirk, bear fangs

forked tongues spilling magik like moonlight

and make you figure it out yourself

the house next door makes me
sad.
both man and wife rise early and
go to work.
they arrive home in early evening.
they have a young boy and a girl.
by 9 p.m. all the lights in the house
are out.
the next morning both man and
wife rise early again and go to
work.
they return in early evening.
By 9 p.m. all the lights are
out.

the house next door makes me
sad.
the people are nice people, I
like them.

but I feel them drowning.
and I can't save them.

they are surviving.
they are not
homeless.

but the price is
terrible.

sometimes during the day
I will look at the house
and the house will look at
me
and the house will
weep, yes, it does, I
feel it.