He’ll gladly eat the page,
if only to digest and regurgitate
the remains into an incomprehensible
riddle, masticate every vowel
and sentence, to then pass
them off as something he once
contained.
The truth is only an aperitif,
served on a platter of plastic,
arranged like a pot-hole specked
pavement, only repaired once
an accident occurs, of which no
compensation can be claimed for
damages.
The rest is scraped up into troughs,
and camouflaged in swill, served up
on tables of those more than willing
to receive. another meal lacking
the nourishment his followers actually
require, but who seem more than happy
in malnutrition.
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.
