Strider Marcus Jones Poet

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

Posted by strider marcus jones at August 22, 2010 2 comments:

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Thursday, 19 August 2010

IT'S SO QUIET

it's so quiet

our eloquent words dying on a diet

of midnight toast

with Orwell's ghost

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones 20th August, 2010. All Rights Reserved.

Posted by strider marcus jones at August 19, 2010 4 comments:

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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.

Posted by strider marcus jones at August 13, 2010 3 comments:

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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.

Posted by strider marcus jones at August 11, 2010 4 comments:

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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.

Posted by strider marcus jones at August 10, 2010 4 comments:

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