Jonathan Butcher

 The Crawl
 
 Entwined with those cold winds, edging our way
 home; stoned, and wrapped up against the world that
 has yet to inflict its climatic evils upon us. We held
 our collected breaths, our lungs heavy under the onslaught.
 
 You, stood on the corroding brick wall, that surrounded the
 sky-rise flats, the lights of which stared down upon us like
 a thousand disapproving eyes. Each one however, seemed
 as blind as the last, raising their eyebrows at our

 every move.
 
 We left those squalid rooms of peeling tiles that curled
 at the corners like sun blistered, peeling skin. The walls
 as blank as they were damp, yet as inviting as the
 abandoned super-market, that our idle hands could never
 leave alone.
 
 At the bus stop we leave tags and crumpled Rizlas, the
 shelter at this time offering cover from the passing blue

 lights and neighbourhood watch. Our sly laughter offering
 a welcome distraction from any mis-interpretation, our
 hands never bound.
 

 As the breeze settled, through the transparent screens,
 that were shattered into tiny fragments like mud stained ice,
 we once again halted the orchestration of this shambolic
 parade, and again remain the drunken conductors of
 a soulless chaos.
 

 Hold Back
 
 The cut glass slices through the sole of my foot,

 through this dawn that carries its own stench, like an
 abandoned, un-manned sewer that drips its condensation
 down stained, broken windows.

 My back slightly bent from the powder's onslaught, that
 leaves its scars, each one a fond momentum and which are often
 often displayed to retell stories; a convenient replacement for
 unnecessary words.
 

 Another blind stare of anxiety; to hold onto those scattered
 thoughts becomes far too laborious; they fall like dice into
 gutters that reek of rotting carcasses, floating like pools
 of oil down cracked urinals.
 
 A painted solace, that offers the same repetition year in-
 year out. I hear the flesh stretch itself forward, no time here
 for false names, and again, I once more reiterate- I'm sorry,
 it's nothing really personal.

 
 Shift
 
 Now even this chair has become stagnant. Myself,

 its ever compliant mould, I grace it with my presence

 each morning. My fatigue never extenuated enough

 to the point of collapse.

 The jagged keys remain as filthy as yesterday, their
 fading letters like a fisherman's rope, encrusted with dead
 skin and blood stained dust, that still seems to creep its
 way into my resisting lungs.

 That concentrated breath, that is focused upon each
 morning in this empty space. The bustle of voices and
 screaming lights delays my sensors like radio static,
 a situation you would avoid, like conversations
 with coppers or landlords.

 Over the clashing chatter my brain scrambles, a different
 picture each time, the limited light straining the vision.
 Each face here remains void, watching the clocks slowly
 climb that greased mountain, never reaching its summit.