The Idol / Summer’s End / Passing By – by Jonathan Butcher

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The Idol

In this evening’s haze, edging down that same
road again, watching you perpetually twitch
as you talk and pull pre-stashed cans of
larger from behind wheels of random parked
cars as we edge towards the city.

It was within that tower of innocence that
the front you developed blossomed; and
we allowed it’s fatal breeze to penetrate
our group, if only to keep the peace, and
to allow your voice to echo.
As I frown once more, you intimate your
confusion at my repudiation. I gradually learn
your presence involves more than a little risk;
that creeps upon me slowly,like a sudden,
unwanted bout of reduced inhibitions.
Though these idle crowds your anxiousness
never settles until each eye is penetrating
your own. I gaze forward again, keeping your
back protected, yet at arms length as I slowly
await the end that only appears at your request.

Summer’s End

We begin that midnight walk along the parkway,
that separated those two rows of woodland
and man-made fields. The slow hiss of passing
cars remind us we’re never a stone’s throw away
from those trappings we purport to despise.

That rush has now peaked, that momentary
contentment we allowed ourselves each
summer. This night surrounds us like tainted
water, that still allows us to breathe without
discomfort, yet always threatens to choke.

And you question the relevance of your keys
and phone, whilst the rest of us fail to grasp
the significance of the rows of concrete pillars
that we etch our names upon, just to deplete
our boredom, and leave this territory stained.

We finally take stock at that bridge, that looks
down on those below, and allows us once more
to pass judgment on those with little defense,
and in their rejection we are finally at last allowed
freedom, but without the chance of escape.
Passing By

Those faces again smile through our windows,
without teeth, but still with the threat of bite.
Their worn out hands shaped into fists; over-sized
balls of nothingness.

And the threats are thrown in both directions; verbal
blades in dire need of sharpening, that fail to slice
the flesh from arms now toughened by time and their
failed presence.

We slice through the tightly wound bands of enjoyment,
this haze has now superseded guilt, Our doubts creeps with
the efficiency of a burnt-out bus stop, as insignificant as
ten years ago.

Here we still remain, without the need for the slightest
movement. We then allow what’s left of our whispers
to carry this breeze, and we smash each window left,
if only to allow them air.
jonathanbutcherJonathan Butcher has been writing poetry for around ten years. He has had work appear in various print and online publications, most recently at Odd Ball Magazine, Mad Swirl, Dead Snakes, Your One Phone Call and The Transnational. His second chapbook ‘Broken Slates’ has been published by Flutter Press.

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