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Strider Marcus Jones
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 colonise 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.

Strider Marcus Jones © 2016

http://www.therecusant.org.uk/#/strider-marcus-jones-poem/4593300107

 

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