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SELECTED POEMS from WOODED WINDOWS by Strider Marcus Jones. Copyright & All Rights Reserved.



i must have broken every scripture
thinking about the sculpture
of your face
your blossom face.
modelled in skin
with bones hid in
and confessions-
understanding them
i feel again
impressions of your senses
aroused when sensual steam condenses
on quivering quill and quim
pouring out and in.
smoking in the dark-
still floating, on the pillows, you used to arch
giving up to me
quaffing thirstily-
then, i stand glowing
with sweat like a god
from the peat bog
lovelust growing
mo anam chara
mo ghra.
Copyright Strider Marcus Jones. 11th March, 2011. All Rights Reserved.

we were kissing
and dancing
to a kitchen song,
talking with our wine
and smoking bong;
then you pushed your pierced pin
of forged fire
further in
the groove of my desire
with your tongue.

up the creaking wooden escalator-
"let me do you" i said
peeling back your petals
with my voice:
love is stripped to sharing bread
abroad-in plain rooms-where Nora and Joyce
reject precious metals.

it brings to craggy green cliffs
that STILL talk-
of two minds, in the sea born mist
of one thought-
why should four legs walk
under clouds adrift.
glum damp rock moss cups
when we go to ground
under body musk
and pagan sound-

the meaning of the hour
when lit lusts flower
fills the air
at last
and the future does not imitate the past.

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones. 26th May, 2011. All Rights Reserved.


this universe has no center
and you're not there.
this sun is only sunny on the hood-
its light can't bend more benter
to be fair
as time stops running rings in wood.

the floorboards creak
and pictures speak
when I stand in empty corners making room,
for ghosts that want to have my seat
when they come in from the street
after riding like Valhalla under sun and moon.

summer shoes,
with beards of barley
in their soley grooves-
still think they're boots of Harley
on electro glide down highway avenues-
with a woman's arms around my waist
singing Bob Marley
and promising me her taste.

foot down. legs braced-
rocking back the headboard on the bed and base
in the hanging of her breasts
where my head would rest,
her lips a vanished beauty of the past-
to this contrast-

that turns its empty pages in my head
unlit, as I lie in bed,
running out of Kerouac road-
i feel the beat
and go to sleep
with some more story told.

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones. 14th November, 2010. Copyright And All Rights Reserved.

with no roads on our map of conversation,
we began
without plan,
and climbed, into the branches of imagination,
past the twigs and leaves-
those apothecaries
of lost libation,
into houred improvisation-
through its desert wanting rain
after years of stasis,
in a slow camel train
searching for that oasis-
with moving dunes
and negative runes
fending off the grey
in a charmed, nomadic way.
happen then, that this cold acoustic tune,
met your luteful lagoon
of mosaical notes-
and the baton moved,
as was proved
round the wheel with ambient spokes,
conducting without rules
our forgotten fools.
go now,
through the eye of words,
to the heart of this rhythm
and the scion of its schism;
then home, like migrating birds
into separate nests-
for now, love rests.
Copyright Strider Marcus Jones. 12th November, 2009. All Rights Reserved.


the sensual awakenings
and moist warmings
of coupled mornings

when you lie down on your back
and i drink you
like sweet water from my hat-

but more than this, you
mean more to me than that-
the mind glue
is moresaid
because the mass and volume
spills out of these conventional rooms
we shed-

it never doubts
that all within us, is ours without
the frills
of impossible possessions
that fills
love and bares it's confessions.

i is flip flapped
and tongue smacked
by the time lapsed
music of your words
that sing and fly
low and high
like tantric birds.

sex me your beauty boolie boobs
to way with
and your pouty southy mouth
that loves to give
me head in all your moods-
that ice in long vermouth
and sober drunken truths
of ageless youth.

i have taken
each note
of your existential symphony
inside me
but not forsaken
the infinite strings of marxist hope,

where individuality
can still be
and not residual,
bonds that broke
when alienation spoke.

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones from his book WOODED WINDOWS. 2011. All Rights Reserved.


this now my thoughts
open at the image of your name
won't be revealing
the secrets they explain-
do you do the same
on these out walks
remembering the rain
drop fractals on us feeling.

back we go again,
without preachers
or bad teachers,
harvest high with hope
just us and frayed strands
of poetry and bands
on this bridge of notes
our mind spans.

in give we've got
the bloom of this plot
in garden to river
shaping start and stop
the melting clock
of body quake then quiver
through the Dreamtime day night
and soul spirit lit by landscape light.

we climb the Orange Rock
to revert back far
but have no Gaelic croft
to live in who we are.
it has changed hands
until the purpose of these lands
shoots dissenting music out of birds
and sucks all truth from ancient words

so existence is
another language.

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones from his book WOODED WINDOWS. 2011. All Rights Reserved.


a rest, from swinging bar
and animals in the abattoir-
to smoke in mental thinks
spoken holding cooling drinks.
counting out old coppers to be fed
in the set squares of blue and red
plastic table cloth-
just enough to break up bread in thick barley broth.
Jesus is late
after saying he was coming
back to share the wealth and real estate
of capitalist cunning.
maybe. just maybe.
put another song on the jukebox baby:
no more heroes anymore.
what are we fighting for-
he's hiding in hymns and chants,
in those Monty Python underpants,
from this coalition of new McCarthy's
and it's institutions of Moriarty's.
some shepherds sheep will do this dance
in hypothermic trance,
for one pound an hour
like a shamed flower-
watched by sinister sentinels,
while scratched tubular bells,
summon all to sunday service
where invisible myths exist-
to a shamed flower
with supernatural power
come the hour.
Copyright Strider Marcus Jones. 18th November, 2010. All Rights Reserved.

remote ramblings,
stepped and spoken;
like gamblings
that bloomed-
only to be broken,
and roomed,
waited on quiet landings
like squandered perfume-
left open.
marxist marches.
mithril kisses under gothic arches-
role playing elf and cleric
in cold caves removed from Berek
the Halfhand's chronicle,
seem mesmeric-
when seen through monacle.
but the other eye looks back too,
inside this rhapsody with you;
and the light-
switched off.
switched on.
and on,
loving day and night-
through prose phases
and shared phrases
of captured sun and moon-
like mellow yellow, stroking white witches broom;
knows nature's laws
has moods
and flaws
in her quietudes-
that reason cause,
and fathom clues.
Copyright Strider Marcus Jones. 8th December, 2009. All Rights Reserved.


in the compound of this room
we make our tent
with revolution's loom
knitting a firmament
that challenges corrupt times
with solemn slogans
to plutarch totems
simply marked on cardboard signs.
resistance kindles in the dark
and breathes new poetry and art
like a cultural tsunami
elites can't beat with armies.
these sincere spears
of human spheres
stand soft spoken,
peaceful, but not broken
like disciples in fabric domes
chanting social justice tomes
while Jesus circles existential
throwing speculators from the temple.
we don't need money in our tent
to make each other feel so spent-
only the sea shore, forest and mountains
to trickle streams and spurt fountains,
unlocking love when the cradle rocks
the secret rhythm of intimate clocks.

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones. 4th November, 2011. All Rights Reserved.


fast and furious
archangel in paint and chrome
brings me home-
purring megaphonious,
combusting with sav and sap
thirsty for long tip and lap
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.

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones from his book WOODED WINDOWS. 2011. All Rights Reserved.


opening old years
self similarity
is repeated

in a dirty
old paper rag
skin inky
and bloated with sag
full of swag
from eavesdropping ears
holding fears
the evidence said
deleted or deliberately
left in bags to lie dead
by compromised cops Met in the city.

close secret
policy briefings
disguised as drink and eat
social meetings
in elite
move in and out of step
so utterly
and fluttery
her red hair
so well aware
of it's butterfly effect
sending stooges and editors' hacking
with immune transnational backing
two murdered angels silent phones
and others, famous or unknown
muckraking sad or sordid stories
and abusing soldiers shilling glories.

another summer Family dinner

butchers democracy
into a loser and winner
of front row millionnaires
sitting and blurring
for fat cats punting
and purring
aped by the rootless
and lootless
rioting and burning
because nothing is theirs
in this towering
new world's derivatives and shares.

wilful blindness
is a smug jest
of i confess
without punishment
for the richest
ten per cent.

wearing his blue clown pants
the red face rants
it wasn't me
i didn't do His dance
by giving my less vetted We
friend a second chance.

this quiff boss
salesman's gloss
tries to bury the pattern
of before
in after what happened
hiding more
covering it fast
in long grass.
going back is forward now
Tom exposing understanding how
the past came to this
paradise of abyss.

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones. 27th August, 2011. All Rights Reserved.


they have civilised
the language of hatred
and corruption-
turned it into condensed
subliminal codes
to be absorbed
and aspired to
through elite worship.
this softening,
that swims in intercourse
with Oppositions
and Self mandates
it's wars and poverty-
hides the bodies
from presentations
where the Smile and Fist
work together.
there is no Division Bell
that Speaks and Moves
with and for
the majority
marching past outside-
like Natives
carrying their bags of belongings,
being screened and moved
from lush lands
early into cemeteries
or onto cattle trains
out to desert Reservations.
the Doors
of cold centuries
blow open,
and we see
how Treaties
are still Broken and Abused-
by those we entrust
who have turned
the Globe of Everything
we are meant to Share
into something Bought and Sold
all Right to be Owned and Inherited.
most sheep don't Mass for much-
just a patch of grass to graze
and a shack to shag and sleep in-
a few, have their own field
and privately furnished rooms,
but when they all adore
w and k's first tour
on the front page and tv news
for twelve days of conditioning,
or letch and leer over the tits on page three-
the Universal Flaw in Their Rule and Law
makes them troll and bay for this culling of people-
until it comes for them.

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones. 2nd July, 2011. All Rights Reserved.


i went on the bus to Cordoba,
and tried to find the Moor's
left over
in their excavated floors
and mosaic courtyards,
with hanging flowers brightly chamelion
against whitewashed walls
carrying calls
behind gated iron bars-
but they were gone
leaving mosque arches
and carved stories
to God's doors.

in those ancient streets
where everybody meets;
i saw the old successful men
with their younger women again,
sat in chrome slat chairs,
drinking coffee to cover
their vain love affairs-
and every breast,
was like the crest
of a soft ridge
as i peeped over
the castle wall and Roman bridge
like a Visigoth rover.

soft hand tapping on shoulder,
heavy hair
and beauty older,
the gypsy lady gave her clover
to borrowed breath,
embroidering it for death,
adding more to less
like the colours fading in her dress.
time and tune are too planned
to understand
her Trevi fountain of prediction,
or the dirty Bernini hand
shaping its description.

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones from his book WOODED WINDOWS. 2011. All Rights Reserved.


my eyes and mind
are colour blind
images of the past,
seen in black and white photographs
coming back to me
when the world was grey on tv.
the print in some of my books,
is a secret spectrum
of heroines and male fuck-ups
whose fatal flaws, sent them
out to be destroyed
by codes of conduct gibbetting joys.
Tess, the dairy maid,
refused to have her sex enslaved,
so men executed her free will
and persecute their women still.
even Jude,
became my long interlude-
but Arabella has gone,
so I must move on
and get dressed.
a bad tooth,
filling falling out
in the cavity of youth,
and hanging about
on Elizabeth through autumn weather
in our long hair and cracked leather
as she sucked my cock on Kersal Moor
and said: "fuck me on the floor!"
filching movie posters from cinema halls
and pinning them to our bedroom walls,
then sitting on bare floorboards
listening to Led Zeppelin and The Doors-
after swapping Sabbath's Paranoia
for the colours of Matisse and Goya.
we can't go back to that neighbourhood:
it's gone,
from the air, but not from the blood,
these things we understood
like shavings from good wood.

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones from his book WOODED WINDOWS. 2011. All Rights Reserved.

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