we move the wheel

that turns through each mistake,

giving motion

to the roles we chime

until both trickle out of time

like brittle steel

that rusts and breaks

into lapsed devotion.


less, or more,

you imagined it was sure

sharing the road

with you,

treading under dark, grey and blue

sky, wondering where it went going

to unfold

in fates wind blowing

fondling your full face

to some top-to-bottom place.


we have moved the wheel,

only to reveal

our high Metropolis

is still the same Acropolis

of extremes and obscenes

spreading gangrenous genes.


we have separated Dream from Time

and live in mirages

like Bacchus and Libera

duped in an era

condoning crime,

altering the images

of it’s illustrious self

stealing the wealth

of massed, divided synergies.



we are composed

out of the fate of stars

a light dark light so old

and tuned that regards

most of Us as Other


who are clothed

without privelaged presents

to burn wood in cracked stoves

under crumbling cover.

stitched to Their time

we entwine

in our own interpretation

of this spinning station.

only burlesque bright skies

and the iris flowers of abandoned eyes

can change the fixed views

of a selfish landscape

into united hues

of equal state.

our reality is broken-

we are the hosts

and ghosts

who have been stolen

the violated tokens

of corporatist totems

screen greed being traded

and invaded

then beaten for protesting by police

working for the Thief.




off rink

i think

and sit

like a hermit

but time

isn’t mine

to design.

the images erased

from memory in this cave

reverses the lathe

of shaped corruption

to avoid self destruction.

to an unseen, individual,

prime residual

unlit spark in the integral

strum of strings

that turns in revolutions rings,

the equal hands on the cosmic clock,

plays rhythms we know

but have forgot,

neither quick or slow,

but just so, with natures tow.

this solitary Eden,

paradise without our seed in

beneath the clouds of atmosphere,

alters with us here

overthrowing Older Orders without consent

in the deafening, silent firmament

and near

in conditioned fear.




i always rise from rest

when you have your breasts

lactating on my chest.


such sensuous kisses

of womanly wishes

feed both of my pouting fishes.


for ma sen,

with you, in why, where and when

i know the thoughts behind your eyes

by now

before they materialise


in each translated stream

of reality and dream.


pussy cock pussy cock


on pleasures plain

where juices rain

and shakey bed rocks

our throbs on natures strings

cum together

entwined in Celtic rings

freedom doesn’t measure.




she was squeezing his head

under his brim


his mind instead

love dubbing

from her to him

how it says

and stays

in their suited ways



he was hearing


in her

beautiful soul

and feeling

whole in his role

with her inside him

being beside him

so no religion goes

into what he knows

and slavery is opposed.


real time.

space time.

the general theory

of relativity

is gravity

and how we fit

into it

drawn together

like curved light forever

bestowing pacifist pleasure.


every wall we erect,

even those to protect,

has a butterfly affect

on us all,

and this changing of guards

by artificial stars

in our own backyards

demolishes democracies halls,

disfiguring each ascension

of physical dimension

with criminal intention.


2 Trackbacks / Pingbacks

  1. Delighted to have 5 poems in Section 8 Magazine, International Art & Literature online https://itunes.apple.com/gb/artist/mr-strider-marcus-jones/id452766922?mt=11 | Strider Marcus Jones Poet
  2. Delighted to have 5 poems in Section 8 Magazine, International Art & Literature online April 2015 http://www.section8magazine.com/sonnet-mondal/marcus-jones-2/ | Strider Marcus Jones Poet

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