Between each city, the slow trains
that would halt at each stop. Our bags
of pens and paint rattling like wind
chimes, as we dodged teachers and conductors;
each station always mirroring the last.
that would halt at each stop. Our bags
of pens and paint rattling like wind
chimes, as we dodged teachers and conductors;
each station always mirroring the last.
And racing from each outlet, as you filled your
briefs with paint, my fear of capture now
enforced by this shield of airborne cling
film, that smothered our eyes; the mismatched
colours now blended in our rucksacks.
As we roamed each city, unaware of the surroundings
that we could easily claim with our mark,
but resisted under this oppressive day light,
that restricted us from fully forming, but allowed
our blood to run with positive poison.
And back home on those lines, under that
imposing bridge, etching walls with what's
left of our time, before coming down, and realising
protracted phases of ones youth should never over
stay their welcome.
Jonathan Butcher has had poetry appear in various print
and online publications including Drunk Monkeys, The Morning Star,
M58, Mad Swirl, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Popshot, The Abyss
and others. He edits the online poetry journal Fixator Press, through which
his third chapbook, 'Corroded Gardens' was published.
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