Friday, December 1, 2023



The Hermit


off rink

i think

and sit

like a hermit

but time

isn't mine

to design.

the images erased

from memory in this cave

reverses the lathe

of shaped corruption

to avoid self-destruction.

to an unseen, individual,

prime residual

unlit spark in the integral

strum of strings

that turns in revolutions rings,

the equal hands on the cosmic clock,

plays rhythms we know

but have forgot,

neither quick or slow,

but just so, with natures tow.

this solitary Eden,

paradise without our seed in

beneath the clouds of atmosphere,

alters with us here

overthrowing Older Orders without consent

in the deafening, silent firmament

and near

in conditioned fear.


I Look Through Pixel Stars


ensconced in your topiary vegetation,

with the u vowel

and tongue trowel

quickening sensation,

trickles down the eaves

morphia poches,

and smokes through notes

of cuddled conversation-


try to pin me down,

your king without a crown,

from cobbled streets

and communist meets

back then, in the day-

that come to this


contorted with decay.


if i know love at all,

it's moat without a wall-

can come and conquer me,

then share soliloquy.

i look through pixel stars,

ignoring clubs and bars,

in seas above the ground-

waiting to be found


in books of chivalry-

embedded into me.

another doing day,

forms and fades away,

as the sky drapes close-

hope constricts, and i compose

these lines of fallow furrows-

my yesterdays, for tomorrows.




so i suit

this solitary shell

of isolation,

with time to think

between the grains of sand,

that complicate

its close compartments

and heavy out

the walk to each sweet segment-

whose footsteps take me back

to blood, bone and flesh-

but thoughts outside these ribboned roots

remain me,

through this grainy grey malaise of days,

to make the wait of wanting-

turn to hope and happenings

that settle on a sunset

while i sleep for their return.


Mephistopheles Is Not About


this coffee is hot-

but paradise is cold,

and Mephistopheles is not

about, tempting me with gold

and pouting pleasures of the flesh

with their alluring mesh-

so Morpheus to hold

in broken secrets being told.


this dreamer in his underwear,

parts from the bottle, and leaves it there-

some touched,

not much

with stale camonbert-

no fun alone,

moving around inside, unknown-

disturbed from bed to chair.


it synchronizes well,

how past and present both compel

a sleep on understanding-

the beat of love with sand in

the texture of its taste,

trapped in silence,

waxed to waste-

with nothings nonsense

in its face.




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 numerous publications including: Dreich Magazine; The Racket Journal; Trouvaille Review; dyst Literary Journal; Impspired Magazine; Our Poetry Archive; Melbourne Culture Corner; Literary Yard Journal; The Honest Ulsterman; Poppy Road Review; The Galway Review; Cajun Mutt Press; Rusty Truck Magazine; Rye Whiskey Review; Deep Water Literary Journal; The Huffington Post USA; The Stray Branch Literary Magazine; Crack The Spine Literary Magazine; A New Ulster; The Lampeter Review; Panoplyzine  Poetry Magazine and Dissident Voice.

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