Friday, October 1, 2021





Hot Rod


fast and furious

archangel in paint and chrome

brings me home-

purring megaphonious,

combusting with sav and sap

that i glimpse

peeking into warm grill chintz-

then she lifts her corset bonnet

and lets me touch her glinting bones

secreting home spun


attracting, like moon and sun-


and mnemonic

old senses,

fallow and fenced

soon become drenched

quiller and squirter

in that linguistic converter-

glow mapping,


slowly blown

in the metronome.


That Silence Whose Colours I Know


the longer you play

the better you sleep,

so take it away

and beat-

the skin of your drum

with finger and thumb

the horn of your bone

on heat-

until you cum home


its saner than crazy

but lonely and lazy,

that silence whose colours i know-

without sweet talking

and hands held walking

in rhythms so fast and slow-

and the aftermath,

lying there

on that drenched path

you want to share-

turns over, tiredly

and clicks off the lamp

where you admired me

long, spent, damp.


The Bluebell Wood


the bluebell wood is coming through,

but i'm not the one you're going to-

oh no,

my symphony is slow.

loves notes need oxygen for breath

and mine are clotted, clemmed to death-




in mangled, mettled mess.

the bluebell wood is waiting

for lovers in their deeper dating,

swaying and intoxicating

natural undress-

while I sit at home and rest

in the belly of old books

with time ticking out of fading looks,

wondering where its gone

since two talked past one.

now conversations come like noodles,

light and spiced that leave me hungry

for their quick drawn doodles

absorbed while spongey,

to cohabit and collaborate-

still separate where they wait.


Fractals Of Clarity


how can i forget

the way she sucks me

while she smokes my cigarette-

tongue strokes

tip pokes

softly round the rim

then deeper in.


the sensual symmetry

of close caressing

fondle messing

with her hair

and gentle bobbing of head



so much love

i hold, in my hands

between my legs,

sliding out and in

rubbing circles round

the sea sound

collar of her quim.


we make self similarity

in fractals of clarity

lying back,

looking into each other

picking out stars in sky black

drapes that cover


what this does

to us.


Our Talk


the soft wind, stroking your smiling face,

fingers your fine combed hair, in out of place-

and i know

when you go

nothing can make this mood,

or give its famine food.


our talk, branching through woods and sky

like young leaves, suddenly knowing why-

they need the sun again

to be, and to remain-

more than a copied canopy

to reach the plain out to me.


i lounge, in your living words libation,

with uncommon nouns, uncovered in creation,

and wait for wantings i can be-

where complex minds dwell in that simplicity,

where feelings go to touch

and come to mean so much.




STRIDER MARCUS JONES – is a poet, law graduate and former civil servant from Salford, England with proud Celtic roots in Ireland and Wales. He is the editor and publisher of Lothlorien Poetry Journal A member of The Poetry Society, his five published books of poetry reveal a maverick, moving between cities, playing his saxophone in smoky rooms. His poetry has been published in over 200 publications worldwide including: Trouvaille Review; dyst Literary Journal; Literary Yard Journal; Rye Whiskey Review; The Huffington Post USA; The Stray Branch Literary Magazine; Crack The Spine Literary Magazine and Dissident Voice.

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