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.