I am the NPC in someone else’s reality, a side character in someone else’s story. There is no dragon to slay and no maiden to lay in the castle dungeon, just a prison. There are no quests, no mythical and magical lands, no courage in my chest and no powers from my hand. There is no consequence for my absence or presence, as just another glitch in the matrix.
Exploding Head Syndrome
In my tired mind, Chris crossed wires create copper currents, infusing blown fuses with stuttering static synapses shocking the senses into hallucinations of white noise black outs.
Little Poem
I am a little poem, made, not born, as rough scrap paper drafts folded into paper airplanes crash landing through blizzards of crumpled snow balls into the overflowing recycling bin until the inevitable avalanche. But with too many words to write, there are only so many empty pages of white.
Chris Butler is an illiterate poet. He has previously published 500 poems, including his 10 book “Poems of Pain” series, including Artsy Fartsy (Alternating Current Press), BUMMER (Scars Publications), Neurotica (Down in the Dirt) and DOOMER (Ethel Press). He co-wrote a book of poems, Dead Beats, with Dr. Randall K. Rogers. He is also the co-editor of The Beatnik Cowboy literary journal.
Listening to music about fools in love; dancing without worrying about matching the beat; humming along because there is no shame in not knowing the words; glancing out the window at a blue sky; the mimosa flowers waving from the neighbor’s yard; writing poetry about the potential of the world which humanity does not deserve.
Our only noble purpose as a species is to adore the raw beauty of our earth.
Perhaps our role is that of an audience. We were never meant to participate in the play, we were meant to enjoy it, appreciate it, applaud all its hard work to become something sustainable for a species as miserable as humankind who has war and money and all the small chaos we insisted on inventing.
We take for granted the things that we are not credited. We act unimpressed at the pure magic that is this existence –
Perhaps if we slow down, if we watch and listen and sit very still, we can enjoy the show which has been created for our pleasure.
Katrina Kaye is a writer and educator seeking an audience for her ever-growing surplus of poetic meanderings. She hoards (much like a typical dragon) her previous published writings, links to publications, and additional information on her website: ironandsulfur.com. Check out her latest chapbook, no longer water, available from Echobird Press! She is grateful to anyone who reads her work and in awe of those willing to share it.
if this were magic without celebrating the significant lack of better terms or the mediocre efforts of the listless and the damned, vaults would be opened. if this were magic everyone would eat… think of it.., there would be no weak for whom to show mercy, exploit, displace or kill off and thoughts, would float visibly through the air. if this were magic, i would not feel obligated to dispel that myth, or conquer those heroes, and you, would not feel compelled, to keep those legends alive. if this were magic, to say you are imperfect, would not be a legitimate excuse, so much as, it would be to drastically understate an utter incompetence. if this were magic, sex would not be aggravating, relationships would no longer be complicated, making love would’ve eliminated the urge to kill something and all that we hold sacred would be fucked. if this were magic, the dishes would be done, the laundry would be folded, the bills would be paid… hell, there’d be none… and this, would have written itself. if this were magic, poetry would have fallen prey to incantation, long ago.
in this time of great social upheaval, a looming economic catastrophe and a civilization, along with all traces of humanity, teetering on the brink of extinction, comes this ill-mannered knucklehead, Gerard Padron, an american poet, on the ground, who writes under the pseudonym Botched Resignation. like many of the oxymoronic, idiosyncratic writers of his day, he is a lover of women, hero to children and champion of the poor. Botched Resignation is everything that is disdainfully fashionable. just ask him. he drinks heavily when he can and can’t dance. as to the many things which have been said about his personage, one cannot expect everybody to be as bright, clever, and optimistic, as they are self-assured and talented.
from the hypocritical top down, the collusive heads of every department on the globe, have insisted that everything we do, must be… from this point forward.., state of the art… fuck’em… it is not as though Botched Resignation, has not sent notice. the village idiot, elevated a tremendous fool, Botched Resignation is The Venomous Dog of the House of Padron / High Chancellor of the Witless, the Ardent and the Tawdry, who that on more than one occasion, has been mistaken for Jesus, and declared a much smarter man by more than just a few staggering drunks.
an inebriated rogue, inspecting from head to foot, an intoxicated, duplicitous, secular pride, he is his own worst enemy. on the field of poetic contention, Botched Resignation has no rival, no job, no money and no prospects. none. he is the point and shaft of an elegiac spear, as well as the archetype who wields it. however, odds are, up against it he can never hope to win and doesn’t give a damn.
There is no grief in language when you’re stricken, cast down, changes silhouette past silence pausing sullenly through the echoing corridors of my mind. Torn posters without poetry, without song, without love, face hopes and fears in the mirrors of pain; and his sex hangs unhidden, and his metal heart sweeps through abandoned philosophy as the curtain closes on the sensual train.
I want repetition of song, recollection in truth; to create from the oblique, denying the erotic, an obeisance to the power it steals from those of us who can’t find anything to live for, but everything to die for. Cast not your demons of treachery, tears, anger, and betrayal on me; the elevator is rising. There’s fumbled endorphins offered up as a cocktail with some really good whiskey and meth cocaine. Smell the lily and the rose,
let the bricks soften to deep greens, let God speak austere though vacant fields while you grow stillborn through drugs so sweet. Let the suicide take on its own craft and magic, as daylight comes and a stranger’s face brings forgiveness; blooming, blooming, in the scent of your sweet blood. Your rib is gone, son of Adam and He shall have her heart; lowered lids expand as they rise in total annihilation. Tick tock. White roses growing in the corner,
Theresa likes to write about matters of self-inflection and personal experiences. She likes to write about matters of an out-of-body, out-of-mind state, as well as subjects of idyllic, pagan nature and the occult. Theresa writes horror, as well as concrete gritty and realistic dramas. Theresa is said to be a witch and a poet, (within the horror writing community) and she has been published in a number of magazines, ezines, anthologies, and books throughout the years. She is a former elementary school, a psychic medium/reader, and advisor.
