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Strider Marcus Jones Poet - Lothlorien
SELECTED POEMS from POMEGRANATE FLESH
by Strider Marcus Jones
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LOTHLORIEN
i'm come home again
in your Lothlorien
to marinate my mind
in your words,
and stand behind
good tribes grown blind,
trapped in old absurd
regressive reasons
and selfish treasons.
in this cast of strife
the Tree of Life
embraces innocent ghosts,
slain by Sauron's hosts-
and their falling cries
make us wise
enough to rise
up in a fellowship of friends
to oppose Mordor's ends
and smote this evil stronger
and longer
for each one of us that dies.
i'm come home again
in your Lothlorien,
persuading
yellow snapdragons
to take wing
and un-fang serpent krakens,
while i bring
all the races
to resume
their bloom
as equals in equal spaces
by removing
and muting
the chorus of crickets
who cheat them from chambered thickets,
hiding corruptions older than long grass
that still fag for favours asked.
i'm come home again
in your Lothlorien
where corporate warfare
and workfare
on health
and welfare
infests our tribal bodies
and separate self
in political lobbies
so conscience can't care
or share
worth and wealth:
to rally drones
of walking bones,
too tired
and uninspired
to think things through
and the powerless who see it true.
red unites, blue divides,
which one are you
and what will you do
when reason decides.
HE PLAYS HIS FLAMENCO GUITAR
he plays his flamenco guitar
knowing who you are,
seducing his singer
to bring her
from bleak harbour masts
to his contrasts.
he knows the equations
of her close flirtations
and doesn’t judge her glances
for wanting what romance is-
vibrating in voices and strings
of fornicating feelings.
her prose photosynthesis
illuminates his
shades that colour mountains
and drops of wishes in mosaic fountains-
she loves the Picasso from his pen
and horse smell like Andalucian men
her reversed body senses
inside his defences-
as her sea wind
billows in his revealing
Avalon through the mist,
sweet loved, firm kissed.
LOVE IS, ALL IS
love is,
all is-
light and dark,
shade and shadow,
high-low
wide-narrow
crater under rainbow.
tramp or truffle you chance to meet
and take your time to share and eat-
a mythical ark
in-out skylark,
so fluttery butterfly in buddleia stomach
that wakes you up
more muttery in your head-
with jade of jealousy
and truest thread
come concave and convex,
mirrored and mouthed in images and text
with-without key,
but only borrowed
today and tomorrowed
and after that, what will be-
something ethereal
deaths’ music can’t serial,
alone, then together
in its own weather
sensual and free.
IN MAID’S WATER
we’ve left the well-footed
road,
the rutted
and rebutted
road
of shadows cast
by towered glass.
opened closed curtains
for fusty moths,
chanted white spells with Wiccan’s
goths-
left pictured
rooms and halls-
become un-scriptured
hills and squalls-
in maid’s water
pouring down her
erect chalk man,
like a wild gypsy,
love tipsy
partisan,
smelling of cinnabar
and his cigar,
swirling
like whirling
clouds
while the changed wind howls.
IN THE TALK OF MY TOBACCO SMOKE
i have disconnected self
from the wire of the world
retreated to this unmade croft
of wild grass and savage stone
moored mountains
set in sea
blue black green grey
dyed all the colours of my mood
and liquid language-
to climb rocks
instead of rungs
living with them
moving around their settlements
of revolutionary random place
for simple solitary glory.
i am reduced again
to elements and matter
that barter her body for food
teasing and turning
her flesh to take words and plough.
rapid rain
slaps the skin
on honest hands
strongly gentle
while sowing seeds
the way i touch my lover
in the talk of my tobacco smoke:
now she knows
she tastes
like all the drops
of my dreams
falling on the forest
of our Lothlorien.
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FORAGE IN ME
forage in me
amongst the dunes
still damp in sun and wind
as the tide retreats-
for driftwood
and strange shaped pebbles.
where have they been,
these abandoned voices,
with colours
and textures,
wild
and domestic,
moving
and rooted,
sooting and scenting the air-
being engraved
by beauties and conflicts,
uncovering how love is only rented
jumping ship
when it sights new land.
inner changes,
have not changed anything
out there-
and when what moved in
is all moved out,
we can sometimes sit
in this displaced time,
with drifting belongings
and pebbled thoughts,
aware of strangers
moving slower than the clouds
deliberately
doing the same.
THE MESS OF THROWN OFF CLOTHES
i listen
to your love beads glisten
in the flotsam
of my room-
we make them
from samurai sword folds
at forge and loom
in the mess of thrown off clothes.
so many smoke me kisses
at portal doors,
and mithril wishes
on primitive floors-
take us back again
through heath and fen
to imitate
lost landscape-
cycle
and circle
sky and stone
outside and home-
in love in less
with your heavenliness,
and loneliness
durable under duress.
POMEGRANATE FLESH
ask those
who grow old-
some fruits are nicer
when they’re riper.
you don’t stop
the clock
on the one who chose
you to hold-
her pomegranate
is still your sonnet
of sepia feelings and flesh,
sensuously sweet and fresh.
although the mirror never lies,
it shows the beauty that lives
as it dies
and gives
its own reflection
of your perfection
to me
then and now,
each memory
taken
by the lenses
somehow,
preserved
by your words
and curves
in my senses.
our dance,
that thrilled
in its intricate
tango on the floor,
is still filled
with time intimate
romance
and more-
talking rubicon of reason,
in layer, upon layer of season
so sedimentary
since you entered me-
and i consumed
your silky mesh
of pink perfumed
pomegranate flesh.
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COMPATIBLE COMBUSTIONS
these are my wasted
years,
the open pout of pussy never tasted
years
and head without a crown
hanging down.
i watch fate,
unsure of what her template
makes of me
glancing back at fallen beauty.
will she like the way i tingle
in her socket,
or my salad tongue
of tales singing heathen songs-
about strange
pagan customs,
crofting the floor
and her velour
surely meant-
that jingle
in her pocket
like loose change
fondled then spent.
i can make more
compatible combustions
out of
uz
and love,
than those musical Etruscans-
whose heirs, have seduced each majority
into peaceful poverty,
by adding abstractions to its face-
altering nature’s position and place
evolving for minority.
ARAGORN TO ARWEN
i hate magnolia and beige-
you are in my time,
but mine, is the crime
in your change.
nature regenerates
without us herself,
but my self
without you, waits.
i know you meet me
all the way
in how you say-
completely,
and take to mind
my awkward
seeing forward
is wisdom kind.
being real, is conceding
we are open
and not token
when revealing-
how quiet beauty and healed scars,
survived each battle, to enjoy desires
here, now, around these fires
watching stars,
whose incandescent powers,
so fluorescent
and omnipresent
mirror ours.
EIGHT TREASURES OF SIMPLE PLEASURES
a sensual spoken
strawberry cut open
thought
brought
me to your secret place
with my face.
in the altered mirage
that history presents,
your even visage
and words have sounds and scents
that repair
the despair
and remake vanity’s varnished vase
with plain consents
until the figures
in the patterns
and the glaze
reconfigure
what has happened
and are swayed
to be them self
and not the mould of someone else.
i come back to you
in the porcelain white and blue
of Ming and Xiantzi
rustic and romancy
bearing eight treasures
of simple pleasures:
heart’s love
life’s soul
passions blood
mind whole
and wisdom
instead of blindness
to share a kingdom
with unselfish kindness.
CHILDREN OF THE REVOLUTION
voices
make their choices
in the game-
to remain
loyal, or abstain
and stunt reputation
for self gratification.
get real
profits of career soon heal
the sacrifice of bold ideal-
when the grey suits in the system
say: preserving status quo, is the wisdom
in this play. other tunes, are moments of fame-
memorable then forgotten in the main
stagnating stream of politics,
where embedded institutions share the same
out of tune,
out of reach hot air balloon
playing unmusical licks
treading us down in the gravity
of tribal tricks
with ghost notes
wearing uniforms of haved normality
in the foreground
and background
with loaded guns inside
and outside
their tunic coats-
ready to suppress any massed intention
of Bastille insurrection.
you don’t have the right to repeal my name,
or make me think and do the same
as you.
your way, is extinction-
only seconds
as time reckons,
a philosophy founded on myths,
twisted in technological trysts
tuned to suit you.
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.
WHEN LIGHTENING LINES
young, or old-
love lines
pastel painted,
know times
of ambiguous gold
and seams of red
become related
and run through sky,
then set in perfections
below fields-
where lying down
allows their imperfections
to be revealed.
moods purify
any black grey white silences that try
to hide and wait in thunder,
before flashing
and fading
above us under
a sheltering tree
embracing obliviously.
tomorrow,
we can follow
different times
when lightening lines.
Copyright Strider Marcus Jones 2012.
A WOMAN DOES NOT HAVE TO WAIT
under the old canal bridge you said
so i can hear the echoes
in your head
repeating mine
this time
when it throws
our voices from roof into water
where i caught her
reflection half in half out of sunshine.
that's when i hear Gershwin
playing his piano in you
working out the notes
to rhapsody in blue
that makes me float
light and thin
deep within
through the air
when you put your comforts there.
Waits was drinking whisky from his bottle
while i sat through old days with Aristotle
knowing i must come up to date
because a woman does not have to wait.
Copyright Strider Marcus Jones 2012. From his book POMEGRANATE FLESH. All Rights Reserved.
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SELECTED POEMS from WOODED WINDOWS
by Strider Marcus Jones
POURING OUT AND IN
i must have broken every scripture
thinking about the sculpture
of your face
your blossom face.
modelled in skin
with bones hid in
expressions
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.
LOVE IS STRIPPED TO SHARING BREAD
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.
later,
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
everywhere
at last
and the future does not imitate the past.
BOOTS OF HARLEY
this universe has no centre
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-
explode
unload
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.
NO ROADS
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.
somehow,
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.
EXISTENTIAL SYMPHONY
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
undersaid
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 its 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
individual
and not residual,
unliveable
bonds that broke
when alienation spoke.
THIS NOW MY THOUGHTS
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.
OLD CAFE
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 tablecloth-
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.
MONOCLE
remote ramblings,
stepped and spoken;
like gamblings
that bloomed-
only to be broken,
wandered
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 monocle.
but the other eye looks back too,
inside this rhapsody with you-
and the light-
switched off.
switched on.
off,
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.
NINETY NINE PERCENT IN TENTS
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 seashore, forest and mountains
to trickle streams and spurt fountains,
unlocking love when the cradle rocks
the secret rhythm of intimate clocks.
HOT ROD
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
pheromones
attracting, like moon and sun-
mysterious
and mnemonic
old senses,
fallow and fenced
soon become drenched
quiller and squirter
in that linguistic converter-
glow mapping,
overlapping,
slowly blown
in the metronome.
PARADISE OF ABYSS
opening old years
self-similarity
untreated
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
homes
move in and out of step
so utterly
and fluttery
her red hair
so well aware
of its 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
plutocracy
of front row millionaires'
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.
THE DIVISION BELL
they have civilised
the language of hatred
and corruption-
turned it into condensed
subliminal codes
to be absorbed
passively
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.
VISIGOTH ROVER
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 chameleon
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.
SHAVINGS FROM GOOD WOOD
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 fuckups
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
repossessed
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,
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.
SELECTED POEMS from MAVERICKS
by Strider Marcus Jones
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.
ONE LAST ODYSSEY
now the back of you is gone-
i must move the moment on,
but not forget
the private part i played-
and made.
we were strangers when you left
but lovers when we met,
so though bereft-
i don’t hold any ribbons of regret
to send me back
into that sunset
and paint it black.
the best of me
is yet to come,
rolled up
rolled out,
calm in cauldron’s cup
but hot no doubt,
with no divisions-
hiding
scenes from someone elses play,
riding
dreams i want with you today,
confiding
means you are meant to me, so stay-
in the rhythms
of my hum,
for just one
last odyssey
to roam in and be.
THE SAME DUALITY
those long summer days,
spent lazing
and grazing
under your pink umbrella,
smoking pipe and panatella-
with your heats haze,
gleaming
and streaming
on my lips
and far in fondling fingertips.
mind floating,
in your fluffy fissured moat
of cerebellum,
where its sepal boats
of words and phrases spoke
wearing different coats
of personality
set down on my vellum,
raising our reality
to share the same duality.
those even strokes,
so unrehearsed
on solitary senses,
were more than promissory notes-
though fate cursed
without pretences.
i look inside now
and wonder how
fate can be both so set and random,
and why the two, so often, co-exist in tandem.
THIS THEATRE OF SHOW
i want to go
where love songs grow,
on the radio
into someone’s heart.
i want to know
if i play too slow,
and fade before the glow
can flame and spark.
i mend a dream,
distil it, to mountains seen
through mind and eyes potcheen,
lotioned by loves mark-
with tongue dabbing gleam
in fast flowing stream
of sweet nectarine
from sunup through sun dark.
i want your glow
in the thoughts i know,
before they dim down low
and depart-
this theatre of show
above and below,
where we all act to know
our own part.
so many vines
in the times
i know,
grape, but fail to flower.
i taste their wine
in its summertime,
but show
i am just a shower.
REJECTING OVID
the fabulous beauty of your face-
so esoteric,
not always in this place-
beguiles me.
it’s late, mesmeric
smile is but a base,
a film to interface
with the movements of the mind behind it.
my smile, me-
like Thomas O’Malley
the alley
cat reclining on a tin bin lid
with fishy whiskers-
turns the ink in the valley
of your quills
into script,
while i sit
and sip
your syllables
with fresh red sepals of habiscus,
rejecting Ovid
and his Amores
for your stories.
ALCHEMY SO RARE
when i make love with you sunny,
i don't worry about money-
or other things, come to that;
i just soar away
in everything you say
and never dream of turning back.
in this faded old room,
we look up at the moon-
through its worn beige curtain-
what we don't have, some say
can turn the heart away,
but that’s not us, i’m certain-
come and stay with me sunny,
being poor can be funny-
it's not about the things we’re not,
let others have their walls,
with everything it falls-
without love, gold is pot.
what we have to share
is alchemy so rare-
precious in and by itself-
the moon and stars are free,
some mountains and some sea-
and we are forests in ourself.
we don't need cars and boats,
or pockets in our coats,
just these senses and to be-
my movie and my star,
my candle in its jar-
burning bright enough to see.
TELEPATHIC LOTUS
hot ride
in you,
quick quim
cum too,
shaft slide
deep wide,
grip him
veined blue.
deep throat
with smoke,
moans moat
invoke,
tongue like a limpet
on your moon-
crescent lit
syrup spoon.
rocked round your rim
four fingers in,
soft stroke
your high note
in drab dusk
and damp dawn-
through its musk
warm swarm.
THE FOREST OF FORGETS
i don’t do remembers, or regrets,
not knowing, i belong in what comes next-
without the edge and angle of pretext,
find me in the forest of forgets-
watching your perfections dance and breathe
in my fires flames then read out gypsy leaves-
imagining your whispers in the wind and trees-
before they fade, and fall, and leave.
back inside the house, picture rails
of love hang empty
from bent hooks, that promised plenty,
leaving frameless tales in musty trails-
to dusty cabinets of more
trinkets and traces-
whose duality displaces
sky and floor.
METAPHORS OF NOTHING
one more summer comes to nothing
and is shed like old skin
to look back into
its pattern of disappointments
painted into autumns
mist of fire blanket
flapping frosts
over fields and woods
to suffocate
those last flowers wearing collars of browning leaves.
bright beads of memories remain
like firethorn berries, red and ripe
hiding in white hands of hanging fallopia
blowing in the wind
holding onto no notes
eyes cast elsewhere-
such metaphors of nothing opiate
the silence and close conclusions
but behave like grunging groupies
behind the final curtain.
NIRVANA
soft and moist sensual nirvana
slip sliding all day,
its pulse persuading
and never fading,
a panorama
exceeding this stay.
the notes of your lute
play wild in my mute
tripped tropical mind,
and speak soft sendings
without endings
i see behind.
Copyright Strider Marcus Jones 2009 MAVERICKS.
All Rights Reserved.
SELECTED POEMS from INSIDE OUT
by Strider Marcus Jones
EVENSTAR
i wait
and listen
for the faint fall
of her footsteps
and the soft lilt
of her ethereal voice
that hangs in the air
to the shape and sound
of musical notes
that move like Degas' dancers
around the thoughtful beauty
of her fabulous face
to become lucid
with loves weight
but weightless and warm once worn
as their essence enters me.
VELVET TANGERINE
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.
THE KEEPER
you warm the bone in me,
pump blood through stone in me,
pluck strings unknown in me-
whose notes dissolve the screams
of ghosts that blacken dreams.
proud pictures of the past,
fall out of photographs-
some fade, but others last-
and we become the present in their place-
vibrating beads on strings of symmetry in space.
unravel in my head-
fuse fact and fiction with your timbre thread,
more than moves in blankets on tomorrows bed,
wet with cum and joyful tears-
the keeper, not the tenant of my years.
TWO BEADS
in some quixotic place,
there is the figure and the face,
whose mind transcends that secret space-
in me.
she winds new memories
like ribbons round the helix threads of destiny-
altering perceptions, light and sound
when i turn around-
and find her watching me.
two beads, bound by natures mime,
consent to dance a tango on the silent strings of time,
oblivious to other fruits, that ripen on the vine-
eventually.
WET WARM SYLLABLES
oh seductive angel of temptation,
lying on your bed of divination-
swollen breasts caressing my creation,
lovelips glistening
lovecore quickening
tantric to the rhythm of my tongue
taking you to pleasures peak
in the wet warm syllables we speak-
suck soft, sigh loud, lick long.
through day and nights reality
of making dreams
come true, with no finality
or broken seams,
where words wake the want in longing
a velvet purse
to belong in
and endlessly rehearse-
like a field that sways unbraked
in the bodies of its flowers,
trembling through every breaths intake
of heat and scented showers,
as the day dies down
simmering in bough and gown.
BEADS ON STRINGS
a thought about you-
triggered, by the sight and sound and smell
of something else-
brings it all back.
the old brick bridge,
hunch-backed
over the still canal-
reflects on those reflections gone
dark inside me deep-
which spoke prophetic phrases
that echoed on its ceiling
and fused within my own
bead on this simple string of time.
i felt i knew
each sentence in your senses,
and loves rhythms, rapid and relaxed-
made its own ripples, constant then but absent now,
with sanguine words,
and sagacious phrases
vibrating in the chords of air, like music moulding time.
CHANGELING TIMES
as these middle years back bleed,
the rags of old memories recede
into heirlooms handed on
forged in fondness, been and gone.
no time can turn back its mistakes
or mend the piece an action breaks,
to be the way it was before
its nature changed, to less, no more-
like fragments of the whole
tapestry, that reach out to find a role
in these changeling times
of lost roots and fading lines.
a trace of old hypnotic scent
and lived in words, now cold and spent,
separate in centrifuge
of time through space and spinning blues.
the face and timbre of fate and facts
grow parallel and parallax,
when love leaves on opposite trains
in summer sun and grainy rains.
THE PATH, THE FENCE, THE FIELDS
we walk by the river
talking inside ourselves,
like rhapsodies in two reflections-
different, but the same.
the path, the fence, the fields-
unknown obstacles that stare
through then, and now, beyond-
have heard love chime before.
ahead the river breaks
going separate ways,
but we stick to the same side
in the willow woods
and farms of flooded fields-
with ascension stroking
each reaction
phosphorous in the rain.
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
metropolis
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
HENGE
in these, so close, contented fields
of thoughts and flesh caressed
by limbs and lute phonetic phrases
in this dark loop of days,
i want what more reveals-
the undercoat of faith undressed
to nature without cages
exposing pagan aspects and its ways,
to behold what light conceals
in blue and grey stone thoughts that smiles suppress,
through the henge of seasons phases
in the centre of your circle as it plays.
SO IT GOES
when i look back
in a moment
of quiet acquired dignity
that comes to some
with age,
it is with patience,
for i was much the same
when everything seemed bigger
than it was
as uncertainty
wore the other shoe to confidence
and followed it step for step.
the energy of youth
that often acts
without respect and understanding-
to bluff and blag its way
in fashion and musical rebellion-
skips like stones
on the ponds of those who have it all
from Parliament's revolution-
but their ripples wane
through treacled trends
in this dumbed down democracy
soothed by drugs and drink.
apathy watches and laughs
at these new roundheads and royals-
jigging their booty
to tunes composed
by capitalist cavaliers-
wearing each despotic Emperor’s new clothes,
and a known assassins kiss of death
waits for anyone who questions-
so it goes.
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 alchemies 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?
BROKEN JASMINE MEN
a walk through town
ended sat by the cenotaph
on old hill fort trailing broken jasmine,
whose fading sweet scent-
fell over long lists
of remembered names.
women of my own age,
sat showing their beauty
of made up face
and mammarous breasts,
talking down time
with crossed legs
matched to buttery buttocks.
rolling a cigarette
the way my grandfather did-
their children laughed together,
and charged around on green grass
with pretend death stuttering
from their hands and lips-
no mud, or soft thud, of brass bullets
slam into flesh and bone
to silence them forever-
yet.
a smile from one of the women now,
and what do i do-
sit there,
confidence looking down
at my cigarette smoke rise and fall
thinking of broken jasmine men-
but sometimes,
i fashion a secret glance
obvious to them-
looking into beauty,
and lusting,
like these men would-
with them knowing
i have been single too long.
time to go.
i get up,
say goodbye
and walk away
like a branch of broken jasmine,
but not a hero-
the truth is
each age sees
birds of prey
falling away too
into the bay
after flamingo.
YIN-YANG THOUGHTS
i contemplate for hours,
weaving circles round the moon,
using supernatural powers
in an oxygen balloon-
imagining the straight
in the twists and turns of fate.
the truth is ties and tangles
of beads upon a thread,
with answers to its angles
solved in something that you said-
like the canopy of bloom
lighting shade inside a room.
soft, part the peel of pleasure,
real and ripe behold, begin-
imagine of the whole together,
spoken out, and spoken in,
like yin-yang thoughts
beat to beat to balance talks.
IN GAZA
it's time to go
inside this show
of profits
and prophets-
to the motives and motifs
of tenets and beliefs,
that make a man, blow a child to bits-
in Gaza, where blood blurs bible scripts.
the gunslung
gungho,
and unsung
hero-
Goliath shelling David’s ghetto into crypts,
but only Al-Jazeera shows the genocidal clips.
the currency of crime
infests divinity and time,
corrupting ideologies that blow-
through the politics, like a great and secret show.
Copyright Strider Marcus Jones. 17th January, 2009.
INSIDE OUT. All Rights Reserved.
SELECTED POEMS from ASPECTS of LOVE
by Strider Marcus Jones
http://www.lulu.com/spotlight/stridermarcusjones1
http://www.wattpad.com/story/90625-9-poems-from-aspects-of-love-by-strider-marcus
LOVE OUTSIDE
i want you horny,
want you wet,
like a river
when we pet,
remembering
when we first met-
on a bridge,
in the rain,
out of town.
i want to taste you
kiss on kiss,
bleed like heaven
in your bliss,
pick you up
and throw you down
like this-
in a park,
in the dark,
lay down.
hands through hair,
tongues and teeth
and lubed up lips,
hard sucks,
finger fucks,
long licks-
take you,
take me,
underneath this tree-
love rocks,
time stops
its ticks.
you take me long,
and love me loud,
throbbing in your satin shroud,
thrusting deep
to pleasures peak,
harder when you try to speak,
gasping as our juices meet-
orgasms kiss
and pass
through the rumpled sheet
of grass.
stay inside,
slip and slide
and make it last;
watch your smile,
talk a while-
share a smoke,
enjoy a joke
and heaven ask-
don’t let the now, become the past.
THE WORD LOVE
if i could take
the word love,
and give to it
the sound of how
you speak,
then look inside
its shell
and find you-
living out the years
like you belong:
i would wear
its shape and substance
in the shadow
of myself,
and hold it in my
empty hand
to not feel so alone-
then raise it to
my lips and taste
its phrase and something more-
as i head home,
along that rutted road
of fallow fields
and ancient tracks,
through what was, and is now,
and might become-
while posing pines,
stand and hang in quiet air
absorbing spoken thoughts
like silent sentinels.
SUMMER WIND
you remind me of the rhythms in myself-
no house to play to
or the sound in someone else-
that drives their dreams
in simple scenes.
your music, is the motion of the waves
soul troubled too-
by yesterdays,
searching for a sigh that isn't wrong
to be its song.
your meadow, is a harvest shimmering
in light and hue,
in summer wind,
waiting, for a stranger passing through-
to settle in its simmering.
taste the rain
and take it in you,
long for it to come again-
meanings grow when fates continue
to reach for reasons and remain.
FALLING FOR YOU
so far back
deep in the magma of you,
with thoughts i lack
suddenly coming too.
so far back
in your words and feelings hue,
your molten track
a furnace of fire anew.
the pleasures foretold
in this world unglued,
now mine to behold
falling for you.
come love, etch your runes
onto sensuous skin,
and make my empty waiting rooms
ripple with longing.
ADUMBRATE LOVES SHALLOWS
goddess of the moon
fusion of light and shadow,
come now, light my room-
make darkness shrink and narrow.
gravitate to me
awake inside un-natural light,
half written, half unknown i be
eclipsed in doubt, but inward bright.
bring your blooms to this fallow bed
alone in fates sad stare,
wrap me in your ethereal thread,
to reset time and covet care.
adumbrate loves shallows
in my sanctum core,
where the pastels fade and pallow
without depth and shade on dwindling shore.
WHEN THE ROAD FORKS
soft scented ring
on straightened bow,
the joy you bring
inside me now-
the candle burning, slowly down,
the mirror showing more of you-
arched back and shoulders golden brown,
hips rock, hair tumbling too-
as hope and passion rise and fall
in symmetry and space,
the perfect beauty of it all,
enraptures face and place-
and be it now, or beyond this,
with gentle hands and loves soft kiss-
to trace your smile and touch your thoughts,
still, after this, when the road forks.
INTANGIBLE
intangible,
like God, heaven
and the meaning of life
ultimately-
but to us, the motion of the wheel of time
brings it back to earth.
intangible
like feelings felt and factorised
unclear, but seen and realised
in the aspect of your eyes.
intangible
like an unfinished thought
in a cloud of smoke,
like oxygen
invisible,
like laughter
when you tell a joke,
or the sound
of a musical note-
and the lilt in the tone of your voice.
intangible
like life and love
in a bowl of hope,
or your scent
on some words you wrote
in a book set down-
in lucid language
that unfolds like a film in my mind-
intangible
like a warm wind stroking skin
real, beyond imagining.
TOUCH A THOUGHT ABOUT YOU
touch a thought
about you,
sense how deep
it goes,
your love has brought
it out anew-
let it speak
what it knows.
the scents of summer
fill the air
when you walk
through light,
my senses hum their
joys and care-
and when you talk,
my mood burns bright.
everything
becomes reflected,
in your dark aspect
and almond eyes-
the doubts of doom, bling
like the moon, respected-
redrawn by the architect
of your sighs.
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.
Copyright Strider Marcus Jones. ASPECTS OF LOVE. 2009.
All Rights Reserved.
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