Jonathan Butcher writes

A Chance to Breathe Out

In that narrow underpass the badly fitted

lights struggle and flicker. The tags and stickers

which adorn them cast miniature shadows that

appear against our skin like bruises, that refuse

to heal until covered.

We're neither approached or ignored by those

passing, who clench plastic bags and leads.

The dogs that pass and sniff uninterested at

the residue left by our dragged heels, the dirt

left behind leaving no scent.

The blanket of cold air slowly deadens our

momentum. That glance we have now perfected

remains as meaningless as that first day, resurfaces

once more. Again we struggle to seal over those

cracks that finally shatter our masks. 

 

 -- Radioactive-Jello

Jonathan Butcher writes

Swallowed Pride

Those faces once again crawl from between

the pavements and orange brick houses and
straight through the neat lawns and new builds.
They slowly echo off each wall, but fail to melt
into one single voice.

That false superiority overshadows both
the breakfast tables and work places, their
backs straightened with hope. The days and months
spill over like broken gutters, a threshold scraped
from rotting barrels.

Their identity now polished and replaced on
toilet walls and dust filled mantle pieces.
Both rags and gold stitched together as a
vulgar patch work that now flies as their
all consuming flag.

They sit complacent, their homes which were
never stolen now stand with brittle walls, the
gardens now overgrown without the chance
of maintenance and those clouds above still
float yet refuse to break. 

 Suburbia -- Andrea Joyce Heiner