Officials Without Intervention

A sly glance, as the neckties
become loosened at the thought
of exposure, the frowns embedded
with the ash of burnt tongues
and finger tips, a vain attempt
at a curse thrown upon files,
which are yet to be graced
with scrutiny, yet the process
seems to require a stage four
miracle.

They hanker down, as truth
becomes narrower, and the stained
waters become too shallow to drown
those ever expanding mouths.
Knives are withdrawn from backs
and skulls, hearts frozen into stillness,
their defibulators drained of any kind
of influence.

A slow splatter of innards against walls
adorned with their forefathers, kept alive
as blotched stains on a canvas,
the frames constructed from polished
bones, the spittle from rants unheard,
drips from the lecterns which are now
solid rust, and dissolve at the first attempt
at a touch.

---

A Dire Refurbishment

The same doors we passed through,
on nights drenched with the shivers
of powders, ill-fitting jackets
and trainers without tread.
The paintwork is now a dull
matt finish, the walls like an upright coffin
lids, housing only the remnants
of a shell.

This decor, pieced together
by impervious hands, offers
discomfort to even the most
relaxed, as we are forced
to breath this condensation
of splintered plastic and polyester
torn by fingernails.

And we stand in what were once glorious
trenches, folded days of stamina,
which now impress no one but ourselves.
We accept age can no longer carry
this folly, and remain mindful that pretension
always destroys nostalgia.

---

Bitten

The sharp flash of a presence,
a disturbance upon my face,
this twilight discomfort,
like drunken yells across cracked roadsides;
an intersection point, a cross-roads
fused on a blood smeared pavement,
where infection settles, biding its
time before expansion.

A raised sore from that bite,
that makes touch a laborious chore,
a discomfort in the surrounding muscles,
another obstacle to communication,
and a welcome deterrent for eye contact,
as that poison now reaches each limb,
no chance now of an antidote.

Jonathan Butcher has had poems appear in various print and online publications including, The Morning Star, Mad Swirl, Drunk Monkeys, Unlikely Stories Mark V, The Abyss, and others. His fourth chapbook,Turpentine, was published by Alien Buddha Press. He is also the editor of online poetry journal Fixator Press.