FRACTALS OF CLARITY

Poetry by Strider Marcus Jones δ Art by Laura Tempest Zakroff

how can i forget

the way she sucks me

while she smokes my cigarette-

tongue strokes

tip pokes

softly round the rim

then deeper in.

 

the sensual symmetry

of close caressing

fondle messing

with her hair

and gentle bobbing of head

up-down-there,

 

so much love

i hold, in my hands

between my legs,

sliding out and in

rubbing circles round

the sea sound

collar of her quim.

 

we make self similarity

in fractals of clarity

lying back,

looking into each other

picking out stars in sky black

drapes that cover

 

what this does

to us.

 

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.

 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,

pursuading

yellow snapdragons

to take wing

and un-fang serpent krakkens,

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.

THE DOOR

the door

between skyfloor

topbottom

 

is rankrotten

 

portalbliss

or abjectabyss.

 

it contains conversations

confrontations,

hiding loves two-ings

in lost ruins-

 

shuts us inside ourself

with or without someone else.

 

we,

the un-free,

disenfranchised poor

have no bowl of more-

only pain

on the same plain

as before,

homeless

or in shapeless boxes,

worked out, hunted, like urban foxes-

outlaws on common lands

stolen from empty hands.

 

files on us found

from gathering sound

where mutations abound

put troops on the ground.

---

Strider

 

 

 

 

Seattle-based artist and designer Laura Tempest Zakroff. Laura’s work blends traditional and modern media with an aesthetic that spans numerous cultures and centuries, defying labels and boxes. The precise hand of intaglio application and chiaroscuro drawing mixes with digital layers and rich embellishment to create otherworldly art. She is inspired by myth and mystery, extreme detail and dreams, mixing the macabre with fantasy and wonder. http://www.owlkeyme.com/

 Marcus Jones – is a poet, law graduate and ex civil servant from Salford/Hinckley, England with proud Celtic roots in Ireland and Wales. A member of The Poetry Society, his five published books of poetry are modern, traditional, mythical, sometimes erotic, surreal and metaphysical http//www.lulu.com/spotlight/stridermarcusjones1. He is a maverick, moving between forests, mountains and cities, playing his saxophone and clarinet in warm solitude.