Tinted and tainted
All their faces are painted
Like roses whose souls are sown
Unable to grow from a concrete phone

In the land of a loner, unknown
What stays in the shower is rarely shown
And lucky enough to become sainted
Is one more face to be repainted

i'd say the #2 has etched its genius
on the pale, ruled stock for the last time—

(imagine when Paul said that, scribbling his
preach and practice between the lines at the foot of a fiery cross)

but the truth is, my work is ephemera;
the etch of a keyboard stroke imprints only

as long as the flaming feet of a
hurried conflagration.

Dust motes and sweat stains
Faded graffiti over rusted steel plates
Advertising everything, from politicians to a massage parlor,
The engine roars disgruntled, in smoky rancor.

I stepped on your feet, said I was sorry
Tell me mister, could you tell I was lying?
Pushing through the rush-hour crowd
I finally found my footing and was proud.

Well, there’s something to be said for low expectations
A word of praise for cranky co-passengers.
Not that the polite ones aren’t fun,
When they smile and roll their eyes like they’re so done.

And it’s not that I’d ever expect sincerity,
At 10 on a rainy Tuesday morning
I’m not a nihilist, or even much of a cynic by default
But at 10am, I take nice with a bucket of salt.  

I put on my headphones, crank the volume up to max,
Sway to the shrill screeching of pirated tracks
I’m sorry, did you say something? I can’t really tell.
It’s not you’re uninteresting, it’s just that this song is swell.

And maybe I could’ve made more of an effort
Gotten to know your name, exchanged toffees and emotional support
Maybe you’d have told me your story, if my ears were free
Maybe we could’ve found something worth a keep.

But you see, mister, it’s not you it’s me
At 10 on a Tuesday morning, I’m not the best company.
I hope, tomorrow, you’ll find a co-passenger worth your time,
As for me, facelessness suits me just fine.

It's simple really, a swipe, a bite, a tap, and a knife might pierce through your back.  

It's simple too, to get a date, a swipe to the left a swipe to the right, nah, we are the gods of this world.

Acting like the master of a master, the creator of the creator, acting like we yield the powers of the sea, or the power and mystery of gravity...

They escape from reality, they put their head down to sleep because their kids were noisy... using those games to replace what was a role of a father or a mother.

Her back was arched too, her chin pressed against the folds of her skin as she sat there, so focused, so engrossed and enjoying the ...... captivity in which she didn't want to look up, no no no, she preferred to look into virtual screens and when she wanted to scream in pain she went to her phone to check that she isn't alone..
That if people didn't like her photos she was an outcast.

People keep talking about MK ultra, but what if it's already controlling us. How those heaps of wires and chips and circuits so easily lures us in it's wake...

Parents, they use those sirens of the technology world to shut up their children. Soon, they would have missed the voices of the once innocent and unbroken child. They would miss the times they talk as a family, only realising those times were filled with "can I use the phone."

Arched backs and arched necks. This is society now.

We watch our mobiles and our tellies,
TV on the internet,
Internet on the TV,
On the mobile.

Our lives are spent
Immersed in soaps
And reality TV.
Hours and hours
Of subsidised sport
And fake news.

Daily quizzes
And Jeremy Kyle
To keep us occupied
And Boredom at bay.

Like zombies we stare at our mobiles
Almost colliding
With people on the street.
Oh yes we chat
And message and text
With folk we’ve never met
Presuming they are real.

We play out time,
Betting and scheming:
Fantasy Leagues
And Facebook,
Snapchat and God knows what.

Occupying our addictive minds
Until the Grim Reaper comes.
“Comfortably numb” until the end.

Paul Butters

8\9\2018.

Living among strangers,
Around the next corner, danger.
A flower and weeds, somehow coexisting,
But the roots are twisting around me,
Coils in the soil threaten to ****,
We don’t know what’s happening,
Our eyes not to the sky, blind.
Not being able to see the kind things in life.
Void of your death by asphyxiation,
Permanent destination.

Everyone on the street are deep in their phones,
Walking alone,
Their mind not at home,
The touch screens make humanity,
Lose touch with themselves,
Oh the irony
While social media does the opposite of connect,
We don’t give respect anymore,
A negative effect,
Where we could care less,
Until being on the edge of death,
Your last breath.

When will we pick our heads up?
When will it click that there’s more to life,
That our clock is ticking,
And we need to quick realize,
That we need to live in the now.

Thinking that ancient Egyptian
made the great pyramid
is numerically imperfect.

I sit at home thinking of life,
On the absurdities and all the strife,
Caught in a world that yearns
For beings to explore it.

How we’ve all grown addicted,
As no one could’ve predicted,
To our own little "ideal" worlds
That rest neatly in the palm of our hands.

We cry and complain,
How things don’t remain,
Just way the way we want
When we point our heads to the sky.

Away from our own little worlds,

We see grandiosity unthought of.
We see war, famine, disagreements, heartbreaks, rejection, and loss.
We stare for but a moment taking it in as our minds collapse in the straw houses we created.
And then just like that, we shun all that we see,
And look back down to that glowing screen and start to rebuild.

Not with something stronger, no.

With that same old material so readily available, to those who refuse to learn.
To those who refuse to face the reality of life.
To those who prefer hearing their own ideas on rerun.
To those who care more about having the appearance of a happiness than to actually achieve it.
To those who care more about likes and comments, pictures and videos, than meeting others.
We sit there smiling at that device that eats away at our growth, our character, and our resolve.

And in our haste to prevent ourselves from acknowledging hardships, we miss something.
In that infinite space away from our "ideal" worlds, exists the other half we no longer see.
The happiness, bonds, trust, friendships, kindness, and love.
The people that want to strike up a conversation, form relationships.
The people who desire an emotional bond, rather than a visual one.
We imitate this, attempt to recreate it, in our fictionalized lives, not realizing how much better the real thing would be.

If only we would look up to the sky.