SELECTED POEMS By Strider Marcus Jones. Copyright And All Rights Reserved.

NO ROADS ~ Poem by Strider Marcus Jones


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.

RED SKY ~ Poem by Strider Marcus Jones


i forgot to put my image in a photograph.
it was walking with a crowd inside a dream;
humming songs, that once turned on a phonograph
who have left this herd, unseen-
to its shadows of indifference
and coats pulled-to in self defence,
searching for omnipotence-
red sky too intense.

do i stay, or go now?
work it out for me?
what is left to grow now?
to make, and be?

black doors in the distance,
let in specific light,
while opposites of resistance
limbo in twilight-

like wicks without matches,
living in opaque eyed hatches
and wired stone-
drawing heavy bolts and nervous latches
for pawn heroes, in cold dispatches,
now splinters of bone,
not coming home.

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones. 14th November, 2009. Copyright And All Rights Reserved.

OVIRI ( The Savage - Paul Gauguin notebook - Tahiti ) New Poem by Strider Marcus Jones. Copyright And All Rights Reserved.

OVIRI ( The Savage )

wearing the conscience of the world-
you make me want
less civilisation
and more meaning.

drinking absinthe together,
hand rolling and smoking cigars-
being is, what it really is-
fucking on palm leaves
under tropical rain.

beauty and syphilis happily cohabit,
painting your colours
on a parallel canvas
to exhibit in Paris
the paradox of you.

somewhere in your arms-
i forget my savage self,
inseminating womb
selected by pheromones
at the pace of evolution.

later. I vomited arsenic on the mountain and returned
to sup morphine. spread ointments on the sores, and ask:
where do we come from.
what are we.
where are we going.

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones. 28th September, 2010. Copyright And All Rights Reserved.

BOOTS OF HARLEY ~ New Poem by Strider Marcus Jones. Copyright And 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.

OLD CAFE ~ New Poem by Strider Marcus Jones. Copyright And 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.

AN OLD WELL ~ New Poem by Strider Marcus Jones. Copyright And All Rights Reserved.


an old well,
closely clustered
with the detritus of age
doesn't tell-
who has whispered
or gazed
into it's wise abyss
to consummate a coveted wish.
it doesn't judge
or smudge
the beauty that is spoken
when those lips
fall open
to it's thoughts and quiet quips-
that thread, is never broken
or it's bed
in these silent seasons,
that have their reasons
for waiting to be told-
so don't lie down
or feelings fold
in sadness, like a clown
who hesitates
with the wanders of fates-
white gold
doesn't rust
in the trial and trust
of the truth it makes.

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones. 27th November, 2010. Copyright And All Rights Reserved.

THE BLUEBELL WOOD ~ New Poem by Strider Marcus Jones. Copyright And All Rights Reserved.


the bluebell wood is coming through,
but I'm not the one you're going to-
oh no,
my symphony is slow.
loves notes need oxygen for breath
and mine are clotted, clemmed to death-
in mangled, mettled mess.
the bluebell wood is waiting
for lovers in their deeper dating,
swaying and intoxicating
natural undress-
while I sit at home and rest
in the belly of old books
with time ticking out of fading looks,
wondering where it's gone
since two talked past one.
now conversations come like noodles,
light and spiced that leave me hungry
for their quick drawn doodles
absorbed while spongey,
to cohabit and collaborate-
still separate where they wait.

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones. 10th November, 2010. All Rights Reserved

HE PLAYS HIS FLAMENCO GUITAR ~ New Poem by Strider Marcus Jones. Copyright And All Rights Reserved.  


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.

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones, 11th October 2010. All Rights Reserved.