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

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this haze has now superseded guilt, Our doubts creeps with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.

Jonathan 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.