The man alone sat in the restaurant
as people talked about him.
Somehow he had become a real loner
nobody talked to him.
He never spoke to anybody close by
losing the will to try.

The man alone had not always been like this
he'd been married twice.
Blessed with four children and socialised
yet lacked something.
He was not considered a long term friend
lacking a chemical blend?

The man alone began to feel more depressed
watching others socialise.
What lay ahead the past didn't cheer him up
questioning his purpose.
Isolation was becoming more of an issue
his future not even he knew!

The Foureyed Poet.

Whatever did we do,
Before we entered the Facebook Wonderland?
Oh, we played in the streets
And went to pubs and socialised.
But who needs Reality
When we can chat with folk
From far away places,
Whom we’ve never met?

My mates are there too
Or some of them
And many of my blood line.
All together
In a kaleidoscopic land
Of “memes”, images and jokes.

We “Like” and “Comment”
“Reply” and “Share”.
It’s you scratch my back…
While the “Facebook Foundation” encourages us
With “Memories” and prompts
And “What’s on your Mind?”

For this is the land
Of the “Loving Community”,
Caring and Sharing together.
Though if truth be told,
At times,
It’s more like the old Wild West.

Paul Butters

© PB 23\8\2018.

A lofty rabbit stands afore me
Mocks and jeers, if occasionally.
It came from behind a curtain.
Why now, I am not certain.
To the masses, I flee.

It jumped and socialised with humans there.
Aware I was; always naked and bare.
Confused I heard and spoke.
It shrunk only slightly, yet it leered.

Speak with a distraction, my ***** play the same.
True, my contradiction, sometimes it I blame.
Useful, as always, I speak to a girl.
Eyes of Tsavorite, tongue of Mercury; what a thrill.

The girl she responds, yet why does the rabbit smile?
Could the rodent have sent me to her? How vile.
This act creates displeasure.
My mind, here, loved her at my leisure.
A sip, a sip, from a forbidden phial.

This was a day beyond my conscious.
Betrayed and now, slightly anxious.
You see, I knew to love you, would
Not be intelligent. Refrain, I should.
Yet, here I write merely to be bloodless.

A certain momentary sadness; the self-inflicted kind.

Usually kept by the owner to give their negative attitude someone to play with.

Something which would easily pass if you just made an effort, and socialised a bit more.

Anything is possible, if you put your mind to it.

It's only you and your attitude.

Men like me don't grow on trees
we're made in secret factories
and shipped off to the reject stores
or shops that deal in damaged goods.
Men like me don't grow in woods.

You won't see many of me around
and if not for the if but what's
and spots that dance between my eyes
I'd think that what I said was lies
but I know it's not.
But what if buts became but if's and poor old stiffs like me could forget they came from the factory and fit in with some form of socialised society
(not secret) for I've had enough of them
men like me don't grow on trees.

Please yourself that's what you do
get a man that's just like you
and just like you he'll let you down
but sacrifice that pride
and look inside the men that do not grow on trees
if you please.

I'm confident, trust me I am,
just when in a new place nothing goes to plan.
I try to approach but still it evokes, a feeling of fear as if I'm going to fall away and never return the same again.

It's hard to trust when I know that I must- I hate being forced into inexplicable sorts- and as sociable as I am, I don't want to make the same mistakes I used to.

I don't want to trust those who'll make me hurt too.

Social anxiety builds when in a situation that you feel you won't make a friend or even an end to the day- a play, the audience sways and you know they want to laugh anyways but God knows you don't want to stay.

Please tell me they won't leave me to lay in my self-dug grave.

Despite my own shock, and mental block, I managed to overcome this ****-stock and socialised- well in my eyes- and am doing just sublime; a lime light I can't fight.

It's as if I've just taken flight for the first time.

But then I think of those who don't have the confifence I have that only grows- I hope they can sore too; within the blue Skys of tranquility.

Knowing that being would others is sometching they can be.

Just be free.

/ the death of death...

                  is that like a legal case
done via a priest:
                          you're married!

the **** am i supposed to do
with that sort of statement?

clap-hippi, sorry,
  clap-happy like a seal,
    doing its best in a florida resort?!

****... clown without make-up...
yet another, slow...            
                       f'aaaaaaaaack,

must be an irish "thing" in me,
living in england:
  and i've never actually socialised
with an englishman...

      mostly irish pseudo-gingers...
and the gingers...
      although like what white
will be: a minority...

                said my prayers,
pat on the buttocks encourging
me to become the choir boy...
  no no,
**** me, that's a terrible joke...
i'd never think about
singing in a church choir...

but guess what?!
   what?
          ever find it odd that a cat might
fall asleep with the sound
of a letter-keyboard
ushering in sounds?

  keys:                    alphabetí-co!

it's not some Bach monstrosum
for a ******* piano:
           digits up to...
****... 26...
   q, 1, w, 2, e, 3, r, 4, t, 5, y, 6,
u, 7, (**** it, not punctuation
marks with this chunk
of a tartar ready beef stake):
u7,
        i8, o9, p10,
      a11, s12, d13, f14, g15,
                  h16, j17, k18, L19,
                 z20, x21, c22, v23,
             b24,         n25,     m... twenty... six!
i look down,
      i look up...
          i look down again:
i look up like an animation
   of a down syndrome analogue unable
to crack a middle-class respectable joke...

and then i'm supposed
to orientate myself in a copernican:
trebuchet load of rock
      as projectile
                                  way?    

sooner the pigs flying
than i do, with what the islamic devil
answered:
               prior to?
        or prior with?
       i bow: i'm beneath them...
they bow... they're beneath me...
handshake?
     we'd settle on gambling...
how about a hierarchy of
mutual respect?
     and less lunatic...
*** in the air forehead
kissing the ground style of prayer?
and less christian blockjob scenes
of bending knees?!

              no?
well... we can settle on continuing this
lunacy... no problem...
  but what happens to islam,
in symbolic terms...
   when on their flags there is
a scythe moon...
  and lonely star...

         but when the moon is full?
what then?
   what of the lunar empire
                   of the nomads then?
well no pigs would only make
sense in the desert...
   but...
   the fungus theory?!
   no anti-fungus coupled
with anti-pork in the holy bybble-blah?

so fungus is o.k., but pork, ain't?

then counter pop-cult
              -ulture
the evolution from ingesting fungus,
perspective...
              ****... ate pork: became a newton!

The election was a loaded
dice, a deck with an extra
joker and badly cut cards.

An under hand deal, typical
case of quickness of the hand
deceives the eye, well almost!

Caught in the act, can't have
a trump replaced just because
you got an unplayable hand.

This calls for the Colt 45 or
an act of sedition, America
is being nationally socialised.

Furrows of furlough have
been seeded with the flecks
of fast growing fanaticism.