Delusions of Grandeur

Many of the first drafts of poems by J.T. Prescott.

I spend a lot of time
flipping through the pages
looking for typos and errors.
Trying time and time again, red pen in my hand,
to spot, to correct the problems.
It’s all a cipher.
Symbols meaning nothing.
So I draw little circles in the margins,
arrows here and there.
Crossing out words writing new ones in all in the
hope that this brings it closer to a final draft.
The pages do not end
and the revisions do not stop.
New rules come and rewrite with
arbitrary intent.
So I burn the pages,
slice them to bits.
Nonsense and disorder are not the same
but it sure as hell feels like pain.

—"32" -J.T. Prescott

Perhaps love is just some travesty
that we hide away to burry something
we lost before.
We seek it, pouring gasoline on the lit flames
hoping to bring back some older intention
like a phoenix that could not stand the heat.
Burning in the only existential hell it built of self torment.
Stuck in the labyrinth of the library where the plethora of
information provides no form of enlightenment.
Instead pinned down under hooven claws like the
bastard built out of spite.

—"31" -J.T. Prescott

Only after time did the flashbulb fade and the afterimages cleared our peripherals, we found ourselves left with a broken charade of happiness. In the beginning though, the deception felt like heaven and blindness like cosmic insight.

—J.T. Prescott The Butterfly Collector

The pursuit of beauty always seems to run away from humanity. It runs to the empty country-sides where the darkness becomes a static storm of stars across the sky. It runs to the forests where the leaves envelope anything, everything, all things without prejudice.

So, on some days we find out own Thoreau and retreat to the primal place that permits us to live, to feel, to be, without anything else.


Rusting knives

seems safer

as the edge becomes less sharp.

But, in dullness it still kills but

slowly though disease.

The beating heart is much the same.

As it loves so it no longer pines,

but all the same

it can be broken

and that feels like 



Coat me in melted sugar

to drown the bitterness.

Polish me to a blinding luster

to erase any blemish.

Take me away

to forget what I was.


Want or want not,

on the rare occasion 

life gives.

How peculiar the day

when the birds fly backwards

yet who am I to argue when

they land on my shoulder.

-J.T. Prescott

-J.T. Prescott

-J.T. Prescott


-J.T. Prescott

23 (I keep butterflies in empty beer bottles)

I keep butterflies in
the empty beer bottles
that dress the edges of my consciousness,
that repel the disdain of the common,
that consumes the triumph of the considerate.

Vulgarity is but perspective and beauty deserving
no better a frame.
Iridescent scales dress the paper filaments
obscured through nicotine stained glass.
Like an old opium house
raggedy at the seams with nary
a straight timber, images dressed through a mirror
seem only as distraught.

age and
age again.
Frozen in silicate slag,
it lines every empty
Hearth of the transcendental
beckons to the immortal to marvel
at rippled reflections of reverence
faded in time like worn burlap stretched out among
the sun.

Across fields
established as a cruder mockery,
the emptiness of life abandoned into
Spectacles to the cosmic swirls that
trace the couriers of angels.
Rose colored.
Amber and fluid.

Trapped to unto and
from, life, death and
everything in-between.
A transient traveler of existence
and none at all.

Kept in the most I can afford
to keep it all the same
in bottles of trodden efforts.

So I keep butterflies in empty beer bottles.