She told me what he did.
How he slid
his fingers
inside of
her,
how he pushed
and grinded her,
despite the pleas,
how he stopped her
when she tried to flee.

After the confession
I felt the fog of fury
consume me.

I set loose
my rage
and scarred his face
with scores
of scratches
and deeper cuts.

I slid my blade
inside his gut
and saw bits
and chunks
of vital organs
dribble
from
the gaping wound.

What fun to see
this dark adult
gasp and bleed
flapping like
a fish
grasping
for the ocean’s embrace.

With serial killer efficiency
I cleaned the crimson stained cutlery
and left him there to stare blankly
at the concrete.
Then I burnt my cloths
and wrote this note
for you to find
when I die.

Life is a trickle in a faucet
filling it up with discontent.
It is the pitter patter of water
soon to be possibly stagnant
in that cracked porcelain sink.

But all that liquid grows
till it overflows
or evaporates
seeking some salty sea.
Though it may go
where it pleases
it leaves me to be
the filthy
stained sink.

To love is to live
risking darkness,
searching for light
in the face of madness.

Your grief is transient.
In time, you will
either handle it
or die.

Looking back
is like biting my tongue
till the blood
trickles just a bit.

It is like picking
a painful scab
and letting all that
little red
slowly slide
down the side
of your itchy arm.

It is like a melody
of soft melancholia,
a deep and dangerous
cavern full of
things that crawl
but never **** you.

It is all ages past,
all broken moons,
all crescent shapes,
that come closer,
to cut you.

It is one thousand
self-inflicted wounds
pursued for the sake
of some unknown goal.

Every home has a Mother
Waiting with open arms at the door.
And a Dad in his armchair,
As the tradition goes.

Welcome to the lounge
Where we can huddle by the fire.
TV in the corner
And - if you have them –
Dogs and cats to stroke.

Then there’s Sunday Lunch
And those daily aromas of baking.
Memories of scooping out the bowl
And eating most of the peas you shelled.

Home – a place of refuge
Where you can bring all your troubles
And have them resolved.

Our Mum kept a beautiful garden,
Resplendent with colourful flowers.
An oasis on a council estate.

As Dorothy Gale of Oz fame said before me:
There’s no place like Home.

Paul Butters

© PB 20\11\2017.

They crawl along the streets like zombies:
Heads cowed over Androids and iPhones.
Busily pressing buttons,
Risking life and limb
As they cross the road.

It reminds me of “Star Trek Next Generation”
When young Wesley and the rest
Were hypnotised
By some alien “game”.

Sometimes they sit in huddles,
Messaging one another
Or playing, yes,
An addictive game.

All lost in a dream world
On Facebook or Twitter-Chat Whatever.
Soon we will no longer “fall out” with anyone:
We will “Unfriend” or “Unfollow” them.

I still prefer my laptop.
But how long before I too
Succumb to this addiction?
How long before my “Facebook Morning Splurge”
Becomes a day-long trawl?

Before I know it I will be like the others:
Lost in panic –
Frantic
Because I forgot to bring
My mobile.

Paul Butters

© PB 25\12\2017.

Long after I’ve gone –
As if that wasn’t bad enough –
Billions of years from now
The Earth will be engulfed by the sun
Which by then will be a red giant.
If not swallowed, then badly scorched.
Hopefully “We” will escape before then
With all our “Goods”.

But Trillions of years later
There surely will be no escape
When The Universe falls apart completely.
For it will thin into almost Nothing:
Frozen emptiness.
All our history, art, literature
Forgotten.
Death of Deaths.

No more Shakespeare, Beethoven, Einstein, Curie.
No Britain, America, World.
No Human Race.
Is there any hope of salvation?
Nothing in the Material World it seems.
Only, perhaps, a “Spiritual Solution”.

Paul Butters

© PB 29\12\2017.

It is a gush
of cultish greed
that sees me seed
these gray streets
with cement
and litter.

Searching for
the stars that glitter
in commercials
and window shops,
the tyranny
of humanity
swells in my heart.

Callus to the collective
because of the things
I seek to collect.

Then with each purchase,
and each pleasure pill
I use to conceal
the depths of
what I truly feel
I lose
a piece of
the empathy
I once cherished
and loved.

Till, my leather worn face
turns bitter
and the last of my humanity
escapes me
because of poor scheduling.