Two Poems by Jonathan Butcher

Pacing Myself

 

I spin forward with the same clumsy grace

I did so many times during those nights,

as I feel that hand slow my pace, and keep

my dizziness stable, for an hour at least.

 

And as further clarity creeps in like an

unwanted guest, he talks me from my 

stupor, and slowly attempts to dim the 

very lights that lead me here, and dilutes

the time that each week I hold so sacred

like a new born babies hand, 

 

and that I swing from Monday to Thursday,

my compass jammed and rusted, any chance

of direction lost, my skin creeping at the very 

thought of respite. 

 

Again in this room, my feet sticking to over

used carpet, which accentuates the rush though

my shins, as my jaw tingles, and allows the blood

to run at it's own bitter pace. 

 

His words again superfluous, as I admire the bad

design job on the vending machine's sides, again

he outstretches his hand, and with sharpened teeth,

I bite it clean off. 

 

 

 

The Day Trip

 

I try to visit places distant from

before, my shoes worn like third

hand furniture, my face just as 

blurred. 

 

Although built with the same hands 

and concrete, the walls seem alien 

here; I'm able to etch my name upon 

any given surface. 

 

To rest here is uneasy, the parkas 

and duffle coats framing our just 

formed heads, and smoking over 

ashtrays, that to steal would be a 

terrible waste of cunning. 

 

I await now the trip back to our blankets,

that still seem to hang despite our 

protests, and keep the creases in

my hands ironed out, yet still defined. 

 

 

 

Jonathan Butcher has been writing poetry for around five years. He has had work appear in various print on on-line publications.