Six Across the Danube By Jonathan Butcher

An extended backstreet,

reflective with cleanliness,

weaves into mosaic ceilings,

a gale-wind of history,

which blows tepid, 

like undercooked, ground meat.

Turquoise domes, which crown

pristine walls, balconies still

smeared with footprints past,

and the remnants of speeches,

which deflected centuries ago,

and now remain a constant whisper.

A shot of forest tree,

which strips our mouths and throats,

and leaves tongues rendered redundant,

the dim light of this false dungeon,

viewed through steins of honey mead

and beer. 

A song forced upon unwilling

ears in The Goblin bar, a rage against 

a conformity which never presented

resistance, yet still stamps its 

aurthority. Another Bloody Mary,

to settle this twilight, and once again,

I hear the cry; “He’s gone again..”. 

Jonathan Butcher is poet based in Sheffield, England. He has had work appear in The Rye Whiskey Review, Drunk Monkeys, Mad Swirl, Popshot, The Morning Star and others. 

He is also the editor of online journal 

Fixator Press.