butter's stuff: the good, the ugly, and the incomplete

[butters]

I haven't read every writer in every language, but Shakey probably makes them all look like amateur hour. That guy who wrote Gilgamesh down is an idiot, the Mahabharata is a hot mess. It's easy forgetting that bald-headed, earring wearing pinnacle of human creativity.

I have several copies of Shakespeare's complete works - his words are always an experience, a delicious treat - now i think of it, it must be 5 years or more since i read anything from them, though so many writers, so little time to concentrate, even less when i'm writing. you've inspired me now to pick him up and read Midsummer's again very soon. thankyou!

 

[EroticOrogeny]

I've only read or seen a few Shakespeare plays and poems, I'm familiar with many of the plays' story lines thru the Lamb prosifications, which I read in grade school. Another thing for my 'should do' list.

 

[butters]

crossover


assume nothing.

depleted of oxygen, I raise
visions...
nuture,
for the purpose of sacrifice,
an innocence of calf-eyed, lamb-tongued,
spasmodically gambolling bunkum. (bunkum?)
I am
the collective consciousness of nanoseconds
I am
the cumulative mass of memories
I am
floating intellectually
watching the world shrink;
the edges darken;
the fade to black.
assume nothing;
I'm coming back.






published in Cold Eels 2005




i would do something different with the punctuation now.
not satisfied with how it is. sigh

 

[DeepGreenEyes]

crossover


assume nothing.

depleted of oxygen, I raise
visions...
nuture,
for the purpose of sacrifice,
an innocence of calf-eyed, lamb-tongued,
spasmodically gambolling bunkum. (bunkum?)
I am
the collective consciousness of nanoseconds
I am
the cumulative mass of memories
I am
floating intellectually
watching the world shrink;
the edges darken;
the fade to black.
assume nothing;
I'm coming back.

published in Cold Eels 2005

I like "spasmodically gambolling bunkum. (bunkum?)"

I'm glad this thread has experienced bumpage. It gives me an opportunity to see some of your older work...

 

[butters]

end of an ice-age


although, outside, a frozen waste
all feeling chased away and numb
the movement of her secret core
declares "No, wait! this is not done -
there's more!"

it powers through that glacial crust
vaporising all to dust
combusting quite enough to thaw
her icy status quo

 

[butters]

Incomparable world


... must be moving pretty fast,
things are slowing down considerably.
like holding one's breath underwater
things become focused on the finite:

perfect babies' perfect skulls
and cartoon physics - boom!
no rules

like sailing, this is best done at night,
man's rites of passage - to sail beyond the Bosporus

tomatoes
proliferate their seeds of truth
within plump, flushed pulp,
clued into the benefits of
trade over war

how is it sometimes
the mind works so very fast
but this damned flesh holds us back,
claws at our thoughts
afraid to let us loose?
we remain
for the most part
confined

time furls its fist about us,
jealous of eternity
and undeniable
so
chafe at the bit,
neck muscles bulging,
strain against your bonds

because cartoons are bad for you
as are too many colours -
they burn you when you're not looking.

conditioned to hear
the ticks of a clock,
we forget to listen
for the sounds of living
so steal a kiss
between the ticks
before time marches drunkenly on
towards an unknown future.

to grasp originality
with both hands
and all pistons firing
is to glimpse the divine

don't get angry,
it's all so incredibly wonderful!




published in Cold Eels 2005
inspired by a documentary about Stephen Hawking and his accomplishments

 

[butters]

Independence

is when
she closes her mouth
refuses to take
what's pushed to her lips

is when
she learns not to stagger
towards open arms
simply because they are there

is when
she opens her mind
closes her legs

is when
she learns
to say
"no"





a challenge piece from Edit Red last year

 

[butters]

I like "spasmodically gambolling bunkum. (bunkum?)"

I'm glad this thread has experienced bumpage. It gives me an opportunity to see some of your older work...

im happy you like the phrase, lol
reflects a lot of the sort of stuff i wrote, lol

i used to enjoy being a whole lot wordier. then i pared back and back to the kind of way i write today. this, too, will no doubt change over time.

 

[butters]

a cat's tail


when tucked around her feet
the tail suggests
a state of firm composure
we can guess
at other messages
but only guess -
her eyes reveal no trace
of mental stress

she sniffs the proffered dish
but watch her tail
flick twice, abruptly, of its
own accord
then with contempt it dips
and flicks again -
to leave behind no doubts
about the meal

when neighbours' cats disturb
my wayward mog
her tail transforms, becomes
an angry snake
accompanied by much hiss
and caterwaul -
stark warning of her
felinicious wrath

when startled by some loud
or sudden noise
her tail appears to swell
to twice its size
points heavenwards, above
her saucered orbs -
a bristled flag that flags her
own surprise

when just the tip is gently
all atwitch
bird-gazing or when lazing
in the sun
with eyes three-quarters closed
and ears adrift -
she's fondly entertaining
nature's fun

for me, she saves a special
tail-ored code
a punctuation used
when i've been gone -
her furry question-mark
requests to know
where have i been and if i,
now, am home?

 

[butters]

a study of monsters


in a study of monsters
the substance of self is explored

cast hues of awe over hellish structures
as clumsy-god fingers delve
and probe

the janus-faced display perfection
mirror-geometry
profound
revealing deeper forces at work
the layering of microcosm moulding us
into that which we are

there are no monsters
only self

 

[butters]

"a million million books, hatching shadows"
Dr. Who - The Library


creatures of shadow
we dwell in half measures
unfiltered light too strong
infinity of darkness too intense

we hover in that space our breed allows
we try hard not to stare
too long at the light
that place where only pure things may exist

mostly backs are turned to its pull
the black's cold flux and wane
but creatures of shadow are foolish
the fall into darkness or light
ultimately one and the same

in all the books
in all the world
we strive to recreate ourselves
push boundaries
exploring this condition

 

[butters]

bleak birds


when memory and mind they ride
one on either shoulderside
twinned slices of oppressive night
obsessive thoughts they seize upon
the pleasures of the day,
turn them
over
and over
as cartwheels thru the mire,
pick-pecking loose cold splinters,
meddling with ignoble spite,
rough-plucking at the hub that holds
joy's radiating spires till
poor pleasure's all but poisoned,
sullied, compromised and tired;
consumptively is fed into
those snarl-jawed fev'rish fires.




published in Cold Eels 2005

 

[butters]

aches with breathing

today my chest aches with breathing,
and art for mental-health's sake gilds
the tarmac roads a casual silver,
lustral waters to guide the flight of
a swan,
a prodigy,
a prodigal son;
a pilgrim, a martyr, an impious king
retracting statements to barter his soul as his ring
invites the soft judas-bruise of a kiss
all this
in the land of the silver shallows, fluting reeds.

sleek cats melt into crevices of shade,
late again on noiseless paws,
broken glass a harvest of afflictions;
and sacred cows, pretentious and tasteless,
vibrate to the rumble of drums
as they fitfully resound from distant towers
that brood in virtual isolation.

I am constrained only by myself,
my self-imposed dimensions;
dispel such fostered failings with a plainly blunt remark;
indulge the bloody hand, the bruised reed;
the plots of grain, the clover fields,
dull sullen lamps and tints of air...
get used to it,
feral thoughts are up for the highest bidder
and refuse to be recalled, once thought.

I'll not corrupt Aditi with one single roughcast pearl;
the stormcock will still sing though flint draws spark;
black diamonds will still gleam, albeit darkly,
modest as the prayers that spill from cleft lips.
shabby columns will still stand,
the power of stone will ever prevail
and cattlelands will span man's far-flung empires.

as sibilant sands are taught to speak by the lazy waves,
and lazy grey waves take their colour from platoons of cloud,
so do shrieks on the wing sail equally
from the lips of the laughing slut,
irregular and sharp enough
to banish fantasies by firelight
where claggy pools and quicksands pull
at phantoms on the move.
and it's the rook, not the crow,
whose arrowing flight
strikes sometime-dread
for its colour of night is the omen of death
to those clouded brains
where only clouded thoughts exist.

today my chest aches with breathing;
the ache expands my dimension;
draw equally from light and dark and
dabble,
strike,
cauterize and bleed and murmur irreverant
incantations.

embrace the ache, it resounds with life,
throws death into sharp and laughing profile.




published in Cold Eels 2005

 

[butters]

brown


Serengeti heat
solid as oceans
stifles thought

sheer weight compresses it
concentrates
to pinpricks of imagination

that struggle to escape the ochre
on shivering thermals
beckoning the gathering of the grey

while life pants
flattened against hard-packed dirt
leached of any colour other than
brown​

 

[butters]

from the 007 Lit chalenge

his thoughts are tailored
closer than his suit
those fire-ice eyes
turn away
his voice asks more
than the question he poses

I sit and think of the surf
how the water streamed from
hard flesh, scarred flesh
wonder how he'd taste on my lips

he hands me the glass
frosted and rimmed

a bead of moisture
slides down its stem
I stroke it away
taste my finger, finding salt
he swallows

*


undercover agents


when I checked out his pen
it seemed out of ink
so i started to twist
screwing its barrel

he took it from me
warned me it might expel
unexpectedly spill
said he didn't want stains
on the shag pile

no, really, he said
don't shake it that way
it'll squirt up the walls
let everone know we were spies

suck it and see
see if it will leak
invisible ink
we can write with

trust me
he said
my word is my bond


*


some
thing about bad boys
keeps her attention
eyes liquid green
a purr in her throat

their
minds, their presence
devilish intentions
keeps her claws sheathed
paws butter-soft

she
slips from the table
stalks the red carpet
hair sleek and shining
a collar of gems

sniffs
at his bare throat
the man with the blue eyes
and with a soft growl
pours into his lap

 

[butters]

08.07.03! lmao

crowman


lick my open eys
cos the crowman's come
lick my open thighs
when the crowman's done

spread those tattered pinions wide
blink that swift grey wink, death-eyed
tilt that shining head just a little offside
summon from within all that's been said
cold slabs of meat
to dress your buttered bread

yeah, lick my open wounds
cos the crowman's come
flick those shabby runes
having crowman's fun

carrion fan come pick the shreds
don't be shy cos i'm not kicking
just laying stiff as death here on our bed
that savage breath of life still hidden
lick lick licking thru my flesh unbidden

c'mon now
lick my open eyes like a crowman's son
lick my sweet surprise
with your crowman's tongue
life's a party
death's a ball
get over the smell
cos it comes to us all
crowman lick the putrid fruit
rotten to the very core
lick this dish of flies and shoot
but the crowman's never satisfied
crowman he'll want
crowman will want
crowman still wants
more

 

[butters]

discoveries

sometimes
when we truly understand
the nature of the beast
we discover old fears
and new awes
translate as one and the same

that there was indeed reason
to be afraid

 

[butters]

Contact

Part One: First Impressions


This huge brave-fantastic wind machine
impacting the horizon
three gigantically static prop-blade arms
impacting my wide-open mind
a new era
in pale shades of grey
waiting to spin
the future's here!
(I'm amazed.)

Part Two: Second Thoughts

Another...
and another one yet!
and beyond that
mile after mile
an infinity of cloning
steadfast
rooted
waiting to begin
that spin of spins
these phenomenal-awesome
rock bound-and-booted
incredible flying machines...
(...they could steer a world...)





one of my first hard-copy pieces published - in an anthology called A Path Less Travelled.


i was thrilled. bless.

 

[butters]

expanded skulls


in dark delicious silence
torpid grubs burrow
their soft slow way
umber juices atrail
as they inch upwards
inwards
swollen with intent to hatch
in hot, expanded skulls

 

[butters]

gotta be about 6 years old, i think

altitude sickness


in the uppersky of towering pride
a melancholy star,
sun of the sleepless,
vents sorrowing shame through the dull hours...
and satire's sharp barbs
twist
and turn,
seeking insecure seraphs passing clouded wings
over painted fields of hopeless dreams;
but that bitter reward,
the lusty sear that, alone, is sweet revenge
is lost
for they're tinged by time and soft-touched strings.

...chains in his eyes...

distorted and pale the hostile bones,
vain dwellers in the dust;
feet of clay in the torturing hours
shuffle in the lust of sway
and slavish thoughts, a stream to court the shore,
are punishments enough to bear
- heavy as the weight of a nation.

...stones in his mouth...

in the dead hue of eternity
he sees blest shades;
and the malignant grasp of fruitless tears
a crimson cloud so softly dark -
a hollowing answered only by the rocks,
untaught to yield...
and every way he turns
he scents upon the night,
tasting on the air - pervasive and corrupt -
one who has about them the smell of a liar
- an overshadowing of his loneliness.

 

[butters]

another oldie

door


damn! you did it again
shone the torch of hope
straight on my heart
straight in my eyes

blind, i climbed
treacherous steps towards the light
struggled on
past scraped shins, torn nails
stood to catch my breath
before the final stair

gathering my courage
like children to my skirts
i stepped forward
into the slam of your door
all light cut off
but not the sound
of your laughter

 

[butters]

Day Three


awash with coffee and kind intentions
focus
attention:
no bleak weeds -
the trap's released!

 

[butters]

opening of schizomania - 03

fractured

paper monkeys grin from slanted walls
whisper the insecure insane
as leering, claustrophobic halls
breed secret, dark resentment -
and sentimental fools content their ache
reflecting shrouded pain in dusty mirrors

 

[butters]

Head to Head


Fine.
Let's do this then.
Let's hurl some verbage onto page,
its lines a martyrdom - a silent suffrage
shackled;
beaten to accede to my requests,

accomodate, mid-wive the inky blue instead
of shouldering a burgeoning of all its hues at my behest -
accomplice to those thoughts that needs be
thrown and coddled,
modelled into something grand,
unplanned
until its moment of inception, yet
quite wonderful when spinning on the
verge of something special...

The muse leads on, and teases with a flourish -
the sour nipple offered fails to nourish
and I'm conned for my temerity -
for how I have assaulted her - effrontery!
what nerve!

Seems that when I go head to head with verve
(with diving boots of lead on two left feet)
she turns her gaze aside till I'm bereft,
her justice mete

...and all the words just zombie-shuffle,
line to line with nothing said;
no spark of living lights the walking dead.




published in the Panhandler Quarterly Winter 2006



p.s verbage is deliberate, not a typo

 

[butters]

feeding the birds


and with her beak full-cherishing
the writhing gossip worm
she hops away
to join the loosely feathered crowd
all eager to snatch and catch a snip
of such a tasty morsel