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An orange light peaks through the window
Hatefully greets another day.
He pulls the red sleeping bag over his head
Wishing this nausea would subside.

Fresh scrapes across his knuckles
And violent, violet bruises on his knees—
Just another average morning
For this angry young man.

Stumble from the futon
Amongst the battle ground of empty cans,
Searching for lost left over liquid—
The only remedy he’s ever known

What some people call a disease,
He calls it the cure,
But there’s nothing there—
No more money, no other options—this is it.

Sipping on a cup of reality—
The bitter taste of defeat.
Tired of being tired
And sick of being sick.

Earthquake in his stomach,
A tectonic disturbance.
Heartburn made from magma,
A pyroclastic flow.

Dry heaves and convulsions
Above a porcelain *******.
He knows he needs to stop,
But no one likes a quitter.
Pockets Aug 28
Here I sit
Feeling like ****
Eyes red
***** blue
Reading haikus
Drinking cheap *****
Tryin’ to find that spark
If not to write
Then at least light my cigarette
So I can smother myself out
And go on to bed
Kat Schaefer Jul 10
In life I have found that
Whiskey sours and old fashioneds
Will always be my greatest vice
As well as my closest confidant

The glass hits my lips
And within the next ten minutes
I am no longer compelled
To pick my cuticles

I no longer feel the wrath
Of anxiety’s unseen brush burn
Or depression’s mighty choke hold
For once, I can breathe easy

Every fleeting thought of total apprehension
Is replaced by feelings of contentment and bliss
But soon, my eyes become glassy
While my body grows weary

And I descend into a deep slumber
Slowly sinking into the barstool
With my head on the counter
In a blue collar town
Paul Butters Jul 5
They say this Covid Plague came from bats.
I picture a great black cave
Filled with bats
Crammed into the crannies –
Locust swarm sardines,
Those Covid spike-*****
Rubbing their hands with glee.

So what happens when Lockdown Eases?
Swarms of sheeples
Dancing in the streets
Squeezing together
In a ***** fuelled frenzy
Just like those bats.

Except the bats remain sober:
They only do what they do
Knowing no other.
But We have no excuse.
We have the intelligence
To see
That this is wrong.
Yet we choose NOT
To act smart.

No, we risk all –
Risk a lonely breathless death
And anonymous incineration
Away from our friends and kin
Just for a ***** lash
Out on the crowded town.  

Will We ever Learn?
I’m afraid
It might be a long time coming.

Paul Butters

© PB 5\7\2020.
When Will They Learn???
She was too drunk.
She had drank a fifth of *****
over the course of four hours.
Oh we tried, but it wasn't happening.
It was sloppy and cumbersome;
we were like two hippos wrestling
in the mud.
I got up and left her to her
impotent dreams.
I made a cup of coffee, and
sat in the dark.
Images ran through my mind.
I turned on a light, and started
writing.At least something was working.
You're a demise.

You don't know that. You're syrup that means so much.

I don't love you,

As a matter of fact I really ******* hate you,

but I need you.

That's right. I need you.
I'm a coward without you. I depend on you.

One day I won't. I hope one day I won't. But until then, I'm at your beck and call.
She dressed up like a
***** just to go to the
And she ****** like
one too—drunk on
cheap wine—mascara smeared all
over her face.
I took her in every
****** position there is—we even
invented a few.
She had the most beautiful
mahogany eyes—they said
so much. Her smile made
my **** salute.
From dusk till dawn
we ****** until we
collapsed into each others arms;
warm and safe and spent like
the sun.
**** tomorrow,
may it never come.
I danced and, and ****** and sang
like some kind of a warped god,
like I owned the night,
pretending tomorrow was
a decade away.
And when the morning proved
too much to bare...
I danced and drank, ****** and
sang all over again.
Paul Butters Apr 27
Covid 19 is shockingly lethal,
Killing thousands all over the world.
We are imprisoned in Pandemic Lockdown,
Confined to our homes for seemingly endless days.

Yet these clouds have silver linings.
No more daily social drinking for me.
Complete control of what I eat.
Time, oceans of time, to get my house in order.
Time to reflect and write.
I might even get
Into good shape.

The skies are clearing too.
Much less pollution
From factories and cars.
China can be seen from space
Free from smog.
Animals are returning.
We saw a squirrel in our close the other day
For the first time in twenty odd years.
And the gulls have come inland
For more food.
Chaffinches and robins on my lawns
And foxes even bolder than they were before.

All this is showing us:
There is another way.
We don’t have to ravage Mother Earth
Chop down the trees
Or fill the air with smoke.

Nor do we need to classify us all
As Patricians or Plebs:
Iniquitous inequality.
Or make Money our God
Like modern Midases.

There is indeed a better way.
Which begs the question:
What will it take to make the human race
See sense?

Paul Butters

© PB 27\4\2020. (Slightly amended 28\4).
In these trying times of The Pandemic.
Small Tales
by Michael R. Burch

When Artur and Cai and Bedwyr
were but scrawny lads
they had many a ***** adventure
in the still glades
of Gwynedd.
When the sun beat down like an oven
upon the kiln-hot hills
and the scorched shores of Carmarthen,
they went searching
and found Manawydan, the son of Llyr.
They fought a day and a night
with Cath Pulag (or a screeching kitten),
rousted Pen Palach, then drank a beer
and told quite a talltale or two,
"till thems wasn’t so shore which’un’s tails wus true."

And these have been passed down to me, and to you.

According to legend, Arthur and Kay grew up together in Ector’s court, Kay being a few years older than Arthur. Borrowing from Mary Stewart, I am assuming that Bedwyr (later Anglicized to Bedivere) might have befriended Arthur at an early age. By some accounts, Bedwyr was the original Lancelot. In any case, imagine the adventures these young heroes might have pursued (or dreamed up, to excuse tardiness or “lost” homework assignments). Manawydan and Llyr were ancient Welsh gods. Cath Pulag was a monstrous, clawing cat. (“Sorry teach! My theme paper on Homer was torn up by a cat bigger than a dragon! And meaner, too!”) Pen Palach is more or less a mystery, or perhaps just another old drinking buddy with a few good beery-bleary tales of his own. This poem assumes that many of the more outlandish Arthurian legends began more or less as “small tales,” little white lies which simply got larger and larger with each retelling. It also assumes that most of these tales came about just as the lads reached that age when boys fancy themselves men, and spend much of their free time drinking and puking! Keywords/Tags: King Arthur, boy, boyhood, *****, drinking, beer, ale, tall tales, Wales
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