Procrastinate to irritate
Aggravate to agitate
Treading on thin ice
Are these malingering time wasters of life

Festering in ignorance
Frolicking in abstinence
Wading in their excrement are these malingering time wasters of life.

Arrogance in abundance
Subtlety null and void
Unwittingly self confident are these malingering time wasters of life

Belligerent in the face of peace
Weary to face their fears
Blasé about things that matter are these malingering time wasters of life

Malingering becomes
Mal'ignorance
Mal'ignorance becomes M'alone
Therefore the malingering time wasters shall forever this earth roam.

greatness once stood here
drinking the spilled blood
of the winos and dope fiends
as they crashed
wings useless
from voyaging too close
to Apollo's fury
this vast wasteland
endless concrete
and stores which stay in business
for months
before being replaced
with the next Mongolian themed restaurant
the streetlights flicker
before burning out
like the candles of so many
extinguished too soon
this wasteland is all encompassing
be wary of the passer-by
they have a grin where their mouth should be
and a purse with a hole in the bottom
they salivate greed
and scream
at anybody who will listen
These are my beliefs,
they may not be right,
but **** it you'd better follow them
the wolves are hungry
out to get you in every drunken
way too high dark alley
that runs rank with beer ****
the elders feed on the young
spiders on their world wide web
******* the life out of the youth
until they themselves
are free of this
free of anger and drive
determination
but best of all
free from the endless torment
of untouched dreams
lock your mind, heart, and soul
in a cage made of razor blades
and swallow they key
because times are hard
in the wasteland
and if you want to make it
you're in for a hell of a journey

In every “Poetry Place”
There is a Copycat Corner.
We know it’s a disgrace
So here’s another “Warner”.

Why they do it I’ll never know,
Those Copier and Pasters.
Their words they seem to glow,
But they’re a bunch of Wasters.

Taking all that praise,
For stuff they haven’t written,
It seems to be a craze,
And many do get bitten.

Just Google their “fine words” or use those plagiarism sites,
And you will find the original poems
Bedecked with copyrights.

I’m sure this place just isn’t free
Of people like this,
Just look and see!!!

The Admins must get their fingers out,
And give these villainous rogues a massive clout.
Me, I will show all due diligence,
But my job here,
Is to show My brilliance.
(NOT someone else’s!).

Paul Butters

I would **** you,


                                 If I but had the time.

Margy shouts her advice from outside Greggs
unsolicited, but often needed
usually it concerns fashion
- the choice of a scarf
- inappropriate shoes for the weather
- or the state of a pair of trousers, hanging and baring a cleavage
(“No one wants to see that, dear.”)

Margy can be relied upon to wear the same distinct socks
– draped around her stocking feet, their multi-coloured design now greyed
by wear and the Uxbridge Road.

Margy is more reliable than her friends and she tells them as much
(“You’re all a bunch of time wasters.”)
demanding more loyalty and demands from me enough for a cup of tea
- a very expensive one apparently.

And on a Sunday, she’ll kneel and pray throughout the early Eucharist,
declining the bread and wine
(”On, no dear.  It’s not a habit I want to cultivate.”)

you have too many laws biased unto you woman,
for it to be economic to enter
a relationship with you.*

when drinking i've learned that
people can ruin a man's
drunken self quite quickly,
one rude word and you can turn sober,
otherwise on that turbine
it's better to be left in a state of
the "lonesome" self: less sightseeing,
less humoristic tourism
that would otherwise thrill
any other habit other than the one
that might calorie you up...
like fake art in the hands of an arthritis "artist"
smoking dope when disengaged from
his work wasting it all on computer games.

He had been on the road for a while
trekking from city unknown to city unknown
in a cloud of dust kicked up
by a Greyhound bus
he used a different name in every city
he wasn't a criminal,
but he was on the run,
he simply enjoyed anonymity
enjoyed being everybody's imaginary friend
He took magic mushrooms in Richmond
and rode the image of his grand spiritual quest
like a drug induced steed,
rode it straight to San Jose
where he met some migrant workers
who drank cheap mescal
beneath the stars of the dead pan landscape
wasters of the great American wasteland
and in New Mexico city
he was given a tab of acid
which dissolved under his tongue
in an explosion of hypnotic torture
his life reflected as a visage
as hallucinogenic as the walls which rippled all around him,
Portland was ******* and oxy pills
his humanity stretched tight like a drum
ready to snap at any given stimuli
he made it to California
dreams of LA
he became addicted to the limelight,
pretty hipster chicks who were foolish enough
to sleep with him,
simply because he introduced himself as a writer,
simply because he could work the word,
and he settled in San Diego
where the whiskey poured freely
and the *** was enough to blow your ******* head off,
in a small one room apartment
where the rent was cheap,
he drank and smoked himself in a stupor
with the windows open -
enjoying the soft pacific breeze which washed him of his sins
he had been all over his forced continent
looking for a place to call home,
but he never found what he was looking for,
and with grit and determination
and a hunger for the freedom of the American dream
he packed up again,
and left for the road,
a thief in the all encompassing night

I live for sunrises down south and late nights under city lights.
For the smell of french fries in the air conditioning.
I live for mornings where I'm driving home to the sun rise
and school buses pass me by
and passers by are making a routine stop to their local drive thru.
I live for the mornings where I spread awful news in a pleasant way
throwing on my sweatshirt that encourages my surrounding
engaging in long phone calls with a relative, my best friend,
and spicy coffee with an elegant design in a large glass mug.
I live for days where I lay down on my bed with a fan in my face
after being leaned over the couch burying my face in the air conditioner
cause its ******* hot outside and the air conditioning isn't doing enough.
I live for the days spent on the front room floor with gifts galore because Santa came the night before;
the five of us gather on to the couch and floor and wait our turn to hear our names called
while we shoo'd the dog out of the middle of the floor.
Oh how I miss that dog.
I live for nights where we visit the coffee shop
and we sit around for a bit not knowing what to talk about
but we end up kissing at your apartment anyways.
I live for other nights at the coffee shop when its winter and we're on a date
where we order our tea and coffee and we hold hands like lovers would
and we walk and sit by ourselves and you sing to me songs that you've written.
That's the only time I've lived for nights like those.
I live for the first day of school and those unpleasant ice-breakers
the time-wasters
the 'tell-us-something-interesting-about-yourself' even though I don't give a ****-ers.
I live for first encounters with a new face
the before-you're-officially-together chase
that part of the relationship where you reach second base
and the end where they tell you "I need some space."
For the sight of skyline on I-94.
For the smell of crayons and wooden floor boards
perfectly tuned guitar chords
soft pretzels at the shopping mall
and Jack White's voice.
For the sounds of a skateboard hitting concrete
for busy feet on a city street
and excited gasps when we stepped foot into our unexpected suite.
I know this sounds cliche, but I live for another person's embrace
pulling into a front row parking space
receiving your first gift to me, a turquoise cigarette case
longing for the day I'll touch Leonardo DiCaprio's face.
I live for torso-pressing-into-the-lap-bar roller coaster drops
the season of tank tops
travel brochures from truck stops
drunk stumbles to the pizza shop
watching re-runs of Wife Swap
and collecting shot glasses from gift shops.
I live for nights of "real talk" with close friends
dreaming of studio apartments full of odds and ends
and writing a poem with an odd end.