Weeds Left
weeds left,
wilt in the sun
without work and
water.
their seeds
are the wild
flowers,
waiting for
volcanic wind
and ash to fall,
so the fertile
cinders
can colonize
herbaceous borders
ending the old
age
of selfish sediment
treading it down
in molecules of
time.
another Marxist
dons his trench
coat
and tears pages
from his red book
planting the old
words
of revolution
in minds of
homogenous compost.
over-privileged
gallows begin to swing.
bullets sweat in
their chambers
waiting for the
right heads.
The Darkest Flower Is The Evening
again
consensual
persuasions
make sensual
equations
as we smoke and
share a think,
then the same
as she bends
over the shingle sink
breasts slapping
on bowl and rim,
peachy buttocks
yapping
as i slide in
and out of her
velvet purse
each time deeper
than the first
two parts making
one perfection
of mental
physical connection.
outsides
i saw two
magpies
in the branches
of a tree
barbed tower
watching our
sharing eyes
shape fractured
liberty
slipping the
shackles of feudal power.
in this then,
i know how all
of when
you're gone
reduces me to
being one
and the darkest
flower
is the evening
opened by your
scent
giving
everything
and receiving
mine in mind and
meldings meant.
The Two Saltimbanques
when words don't
come easy
they make do
with silence
and find
something in nothing
to say to each
other
when the
absinthe runs out.
his glass and
ego
are bigger than
hers,
his elbows
sharper,
stabbing into
the table
and the chambers
of her heart
cobalt clown
without a smile.
she looks away
with his misery
behind her eyes
and sadness on
her lips,
back into her
curves
and the orange
grove
summer of her
dress
worn and blown
by sepia time
where she
painted
her cockus giganticus
lying down
naked
for her brush
and skin,
mingling
intimate scents
undoing and
doing each other.
for some of us,
living back then
is more going
forward
than living in
now
and sitting
here-
at this table,
with these
glasses
standing empty
of absinthe,
faces wanting
hands
to be a bridge
of words
and equal peace
as Guernica
approaches.
Love Wanes Like Old News
she left,
without remorse
or love to lose-
and cleft
the music from
the blues.
bereft,
in melancholy
mental muse-
the theft
of love wanes
like old news,
and jests
through pain to
wear in new shoes-
the rest,
just words in
ink and oral clues.
Poets In The Backfield
Stay a while?
The subliminal
cuts are coming through
These days of
deadly boredom,
And poets in the
backfield
Writing
Something
Interesting.
Hardy, would not
like today,
Life's become an
angry play;
And our
deoxyribonucleic acid
Carries no
imagination,
That's not
already put there
By a rival TV
station.
I can hear you
saying,
Yes, but we have
the right to choose:
A colour, and a
ball of string-
Or poets in the
backfield
Writing
Something
Interesting.
You said:
"The Golden
Bird eats Fish
In South America
And most of the
peasants let him,
Because of
Bolivar."
Yet, millions
starved in Gulag camps,
And Czechs cried
fears when Russian tanks,
Thundered
through their traumoid streets
Pretending not
to be elite.
As one old
soldier put it:
"The West
and East preach different dreams,
But ride the
same black limousines."
Stay a while?
These sheets are
cold
Without your
sighing skin;
And this poet in
the backfield
Is writing
Nothing
Interesting.
STRIDER MARCUS JONES
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: The
Huffington Post USA; The Stray Branch Literary Magazine; Crack The Spine
Literary Magazine; The Lampeter Review and Dissident Voice.
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