Saturday 28 August 2010
Thursday 26 August 2010
Wednesday 25 August 2010
Sunday 22 August 2010
IT'S SO QUIET ~ Poem By Strider Marcus Jones.Copyright And All Rights Reserved. 22nd August, 2010.
IT'S SO QUIET
it's so quiet
our eloquent words dying on a diet
of midnight toast
with Orwell's ghost-
looking so tubercular in a tweed jacket
pencilling notes on a lung black cigarette packet-
our Winston, wronged for a woman and sin
re-wrote history on scrolls thought down tubes
that came to him
in the Ministry Of Truth Of Fools
where conscience learns to lie within.
not like today
the smug-sly haves say and look away
so sure
there's nothing wrong with wanting more,
or drown their sorrows
downing bootleg gin
knowing tomorrows
truth is paper thin.
at home
in sensory
perception
with tapped and tracked phone
the Thought Police arrest me
in the corridors of affection-
where dictators wear, red then blue, reversible coats
in collapsing houses, all self-made
and self-paid
smarmy scrotes-
now the Round Table
of real red politics
is only fable
on the pyre of ghostly heretics.
they are rubbing out
all the contusions
and solitary doubt,
with confusions
and illusions
through wired media
defined in their secret encyclopedia-
where summit and boardroom and conclave
engineer us from birth to grave.
like the birds,
i will have to eat
the firethorn
berries that ripen but sleep
to keep
the words
of revolution
alive and warm
this winter, with resolution
gathering us, to its lantern in the bleak,
to be reborn and speak.
Copyright Strider Marcus Jones. 22nd August, 2010. All Rights Reserved.
©Strider Marcus Jones and stridermarcusjones.lulu.com. 2010. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material that appears here or has appeared here without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Strider Marcus Jones and stridermarcusjones.lulu.com with appropriate and specific direction to the original content. Page copy protected against web site content infringement by Copyscape
Books are available at http://stridersretreat.blogspot.com and http://www.lulu.com Strider Marcus Jones Poetry Books.
©Strider Marcus Jones
it's so quiet
our eloquent words dying on a diet
of midnight toast
with Orwell's ghost-
looking so tubercular in a tweed jacket
pencilling notes on a lung black cigarette packet-
our Winston, wronged for a woman and sin
re-wrote history on scrolls thought down tubes
that came to him
in the Ministry Of Truth Of Fools
where conscience learns to lie within.
not like today
the smug-sly haves say and look away
so sure
there's nothing wrong with wanting more,
or drown their sorrows
downing bootleg gin
knowing tomorrows
truth is paper thin.
at home
in sensory
perception
with tapped and tracked phone
the Thought Police arrest me
in the corridors of affection-
where dictators wear, red then blue, reversible coats
in collapsing houses, all self-made
and self-paid
smarmy scrotes-
now the Round Table
of real red politics
is only fable
on the pyre of ghostly heretics.
they are rubbing out
all the contusions
and solitary doubt,
with confusions
and illusions
through wired media
defined in their secret encyclopedia-
where summit and boardroom and conclave
engineer us from birth to grave.
like the birds,
i will have to eat
the firethorn
berries that ripen but sleep
to keep
the words
of revolution
alive and warm
this winter, with resolution
gathering us, to its lantern in the bleak,
to be reborn and speak.
Copyright Strider Marcus Jones. 22nd August, 2010. All Rights Reserved.
©Strider Marcus Jones and stridermarcusjones.lulu.com. 2010. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material that appears here or has appeared here without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Strider Marcus Jones and stridermarcusjones.lulu.com with appropriate and specific direction to the original content. Page copy protected against web site content infringement by Copyscape
Books are available at http://stridersretreat.blogspot.com and http://www.lulu.com Strider Marcus Jones Poetry Books.
©Strider Marcus Jones
Thursday 19 August 2010
IT'S SO QUIET
Friday 13 August 2010
HERE I AM ~ New Poem Copyright By Strider Marcus Jones. All Rights Reserved
HERE I AM
here i am
in some lost
where i'll be looking for you later
in the frost
of your cyan
that was equator
fabulously been
with a dram and cloves of evergreen
aromatic branches
roaming through your thoughts ranches-
not to turn the pigments and phonetics
of it back
or absorb blank ammunitions hits
defending your attack
of made up words
from stunning me like wading birds
stuck in your muddy vellum
of cerubellum-
no not for that
but just to mean
the wound is clean
of abstract probabilities
adorning geometric cities
Copyright Strider Marcus Jones. 13th August, 2010. All Rights Reserved.
here i am
in some lost
where i'll be looking for you later
in the frost
of your cyan
that was equator
fabulously been
with a dram and cloves of evergreen
aromatic branches
roaming through your thoughts ranches-
not to turn the pigments and phonetics
of it back
or absorb blank ammunitions hits
defending your attack
of made up words
from stunning me like wading birds
stuck in your muddy vellum
of cerubellum-
no not for that
but just to mean
the wound is clean
of abstract probabilities
adorning geometric cities
Copyright Strider Marcus Jones. 13th August, 2010. All Rights Reserved.
Wednesday 11 August 2010
ON SLIGHT IMPERFECT SILK ~ Poem By Strider Marcus Jones
ON SLIGHT IMPERFECT SILK
the poetry you painted on my ass
didn't have the gas
to pass
the flaws of time.
it was Jabberwocky language in a mask
sweet coffee in a flask
poured out in a line-
a dried out waterfall
of evaporated milk
sliding down a wall
on slight imperfect silk.
it happened
floated, then flattened
echoed out and down a well worn road
like a harvest cart pulling its load
of cut out memories
to fall and fade in muddied and greyed entries.
Copyright Strider Marcus Jones. 11th August, 2010. All Rights Reserved.
the poetry you painted on my ass
didn't have the gas
to pass
the flaws of time.
it was Jabberwocky language in a mask
sweet coffee in a flask
poured out in a line-
a dried out waterfall
of evaporated milk
sliding down a wall
on slight imperfect silk.
it happened
floated, then flattened
echoed out and down a well worn road
like a harvest cart pulling its load
of cut out memories
to fall and fade in muddied and greyed entries.
Copyright Strider Marcus Jones. 11th August, 2010. All Rights Reserved.
Tuesday 10 August 2010
CALCULUS ~ Poem by Strider Marcus Jones
CALCULUS
Darwin can't explain the missing link,
and science, did not invent the goal
of faith in how we think-
but Newton keeps us
sane to find the whole
gravity and reason for our role-
in calculus.
science beyond ours does exist,
in un-deciphered hieroglyphs
and alchemy's of metals
malleable like petals
on spaceships
crashed in Roswell, gone
to Area 51.
like Dedalus, who prayed too good
through Dublin's streets
of saints and sinners,
while whores exchanged their treats
for cash, from winners and beginners-
i walked towards the priesthood,
but woke up wet with wood.
i realised, Carlisle was right in saying:
no lie can live forever-
that the Gods we make together
praying-
don't care or intervene
in human fate and actions-
so Spinoza's God is seen,
in the orderly reactions
of the universe-
creating life, and waiting hearse-
but metaphors of doubt persist
on the road to armageddon,
for if physics shapes all of this-
what shapes these cloths of heaven?
Copyright Strider Marcus Jones. INSIDE OUT. 21st January, 2009. All Rights Reserved.
Darwin can't explain the missing link,
and science, did not invent the goal
of faith in how we think-
but Newton keeps us
sane to find the whole
gravity and reason for our role-
in calculus.
science beyond ours does exist,
in un-deciphered hieroglyphs
and alchemy's of metals
malleable like petals
on spaceships
crashed in Roswell, gone
to Area 51.
like Dedalus, who prayed too good
through Dublin's streets
of saints and sinners,
while whores exchanged their treats
for cash, from winners and beginners-
i walked towards the priesthood,
but woke up wet with wood.
i realised, Carlisle was right in saying:
no lie can live forever-
that the Gods we make together
praying-
don't care or intervene
in human fate and actions-
so Spinoza's God is seen,
in the orderly reactions
of the universe-
creating life, and waiting hearse-
but metaphors of doubt persist
on the road to armageddon,
for if physics shapes all of this-
what shapes these cloths of heaven?
Copyright Strider Marcus Jones. INSIDE OUT. 21st January, 2009. All Rights Reserved.
Monday 9 August 2010
VELVET TANGERINE ~ Poem By Strider Marcus Jones
i was drinking tea with Dali
in an underworld cafe,
arguing down his table
on General Franco's hand-
when The Persistence Of Memory
that melts my pocket watch
made time less rigid-
so i fell with names and numbers
into old obsidian dreams-
where your long legs pointed
from six to twelve,
then nine to three
when you bent them-
for me to play and pleasure
each exotic segment
of your velvet tangerine.
Dali left the table
to meet Picasso in Paris,
while my benzedrine mind replaced-
the soft and spent infinity of your face.
Copyright Strider Marcus Jones from INSIDE OUT 2009. All Rights Reserved.
i was drinking tea with Dali
in an underworld cafe,
arguing down his table
on General Franco's hand-
when The Persistence Of Memory
that melts my pocket watch
made time less rigid-
so i fell with names and numbers
into old obsidian dreams-
where your long legs pointed
from six to twelve,
then nine to three
when you bent them-
for me to play and pleasure
each exotic segment
of your velvet tangerine.
Dali left the table
to meet Picasso in Paris,
while my benzedrine mind replaced-
the soft and spent infinity of your face.
Copyright Strider Marcus Jones from INSIDE OUT 2009. All Rights Reserved.
MAVERICKS ~ Poem Copyright Strider Marcus Jones 2009 MAVERICKS. All Rights Reserved.
MAVERICKS
you taste of cinnamon and fish
when you wish
to be romantic-
and the ciphers of our thoughts
make ringlets with their noughts
immersed in magic-
like mithril mail around me
stove dark forest, pink flesh sea
touchings tantric-
make reality and myths
converge in elven riffs
of music, so we dance it-
symbols to the scenes
of conflict, mavericks in dreams
that now sit-
listening to these pots and kettles
blackening on the fire
of rhetoric and murderous mettles-
before we both retire
to our own script.
Copyright Strider Marcus Jones. 9th September, 2009. MAVERICKS. All Rights Reserved.
you taste of cinnamon and fish
when you wish
to be romantic-
and the ciphers of our thoughts
make ringlets with their noughts
immersed in magic-
like mithril mail around me
stove dark forest, pink flesh sea
touchings tantric-
make reality and myths
converge in elven riffs
of music, so we dance it-
symbols to the scenes
of conflict, mavericks in dreams
that now sit-
listening to these pots and kettles
blackening on the fire
of rhetoric and murderous mettles-
before we both retire
to our own script.
Copyright Strider Marcus Jones. 9th September, 2009. MAVERICKS. All Rights Reserved.
Wednesday 4 August 2010
MAVERICKS ~ By Strider Marcus Jones ~ Book Poetry ~ Publisher www.lulu.com
http://www.lulu.com/product/paperback/mavericks/5524020?showPreview
INSIDE OUT ~ By Strider Marcus Jones ~ Book Poetry ~ Publisher www.lulu.com
http://www.lulu.com/product/paperback/inside-out/5266487?showPreview
ASPECTS OF LOVE ~ Book Poetry By Strider Marcus Jones Publisher www.lulu.com
http://www.lulu.com/product/paperback/aspects-of-love/5266043?showPreview
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
