Chris Butler, also known as Antichris and the Illiterate Poet, has published 11 books of poetry by the ripe old age of 35, when the apple cheers begin to drop their rotten bounty. His latest books, DOOMER published by Ethel, and Hi, my name is anonymous published by Alien Buddha Press, both of which were scheduled for release in October 2021. He also published a collaborative book of poetics with Dr. Randall Rogers, entitled DEAD BEATS (2020). He is also the co-editor of The Beatnik Cowboy literary journal.

I have not dreamt in thirty years…  

then last night  
in my sleep  
my mind had  
a nervous breakdown.  
It only got worse  
when I woke up. 
eye lids sliced, 
lucid dreams seized 
by nightmares banned 
in every country, 
waving like a flippant flag 
versus hurricane exhales, 
hands whitened by  
distressed clenching, 
broken ribs constricted 
desperate breath intakes 
until the lucid lock 
cut my kisser’s tongue  
into a snake’s tip. 
Forced to awake 
as a sleep walker 
double amputee, 
watching the clouded 
evening pass slowly, 
stroking a second 
generation chewed 
overstuffed toy, 
waiting impatiently 
for my eyes  
to close again. 

wanna be friends? 

wanna be friends? 
Click to link, and 
you’ll be able to 
study my public 
and private pictures, 
track my location 
by telegram posts, 
spam my contacts, 
and hack your way  
into my way of life.  
Change my username 
and all my passwords, 
steal the last four 
antisocial insecurity 
numbers, spy on 
me through my 
computer’s camera 
after I shut down, 
and please feel  
free to invade my  
claustrophobic  
personal space 
and watch me 
whilst I sleep.  

There is no future for Mother’s nature… 

Catch fish to not release, 
dead trees’ barren fingertip branches 
spread like railroad track marks up, 
black metal veins rusted 
in indistinguishable disrepair   
to bamboo mountain,
inside the nightingale’s forest 
as its roots mature and then  
continue to seek water, where 
nature is no longer nurtured 
in hell.