2 Poems by Chris Butler


My face
hides from sight
and the light
of everyday.

This insipid skin
pales against
the illumination
of some serene
screensaver scenery,

stricken with
melatonin depletion
from the artificial sun
slowly seeping in.

I choke on the fog of
intoxicating smoke
and carbon dioxide,

locked in an
built around my

with no exit,

out of touch,



The living dead
walk amongst us,

brain dead consumers
marching purposelessly
up and down the endless
aisles of high priced
merchandise on shelves
just out of reach,

moaning hopelessness
for a hunger that will
never be satisfied.

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