Wooded Windows

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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.

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones. 11th March, 2011. All Rights Reserved.

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.

 

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

 

BOOTS OF HARLEY

 

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-

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.

 

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

 

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.

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones. 12th November, 2009. All Rights Reserved.

 

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 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

individual

and not residual,

unlivable

bonds that broke

when alienation spoke.

 

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

 

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.

 

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

 

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 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.

 

MONACLE

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 monacle.

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.

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones. 8th December, 2009. All Rights Reserved.

 

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 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.

 

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.

 

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

 

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 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

plutocracy

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.

 

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.

 

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

 

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 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.

 

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 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

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.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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