Delighted to have 5 poems featured in Fevers of the Mind. My thanks to Poet and Editor David O’Nan. Most appreciated.

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FEVERS OF THE MIND

Writing, Poetry, Short Stories, Reviews, Art Contests

HomePoetry Showcase by Strider Marcus Jones

Bio:

Strider Marcus Jones – is a poet, law graduate and former civil servant from Salford, England with proud Celtic roots in Ireland and Wales. He is the editor and publisher of Lothlorien Poetry Journal 

https://lothlorienpoetryjournal.blogspot.com/.

A member of The Poetry Society, his five published books of poetry  https://stridermarcusjonespoetry.wordpress.com/ reveal a maverick, moving between cities, playing his saxophone in smoky rooms.       

His poetry has been published in over 200 publications including: Dreich Magazine; The Racket Journal; Trouvaille Review; dyst Literary Journal; Impspired Magazine; Melbourne Culture Corner and Literary Yard Journal.

HOT ROD

fast and furiousarchangel in paint and chromebrings me home-purring megaphonious,combusting with sav and sapthat i glimpsepeeking into warm grill chintz-then she lifts her corset bonnetand lets me touch her glinting bonessecreting home spunpheromonesattracting, like moon and sun-mysteriousand mnemonicold senses,fallow and fencedsoon become drenchedquiller and squirterin that linguistic converter-glow mapping,overlapping,slowly blownin the metronome.OLD CAFEa rest, from swinging barand animals in the abattoir-to smoke in mental thinks spoken holding cooling drinks. counting out old coppers to be fedin the set squares of blue and redplastic tablecloth-just enough to break up bread in thick barley broth. Jesus is lateafter saying he was comingback to share the wealth and real estateof 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'sand its institutions of Moriarty's. some shepherd sheep will do this dancein hypothermic trance,for one pound an hour like a shamed flower- watched by sinister sentinels, while scratched tubular bells,summon all to Sunday servicewhere invisible myths exist- to a shamed flowerwith supernatural powercome the hour.POMEGRANATE FLESHask thosewho grow old-some fruits are nicerwhen they're riper.you dont stopthe clockon the one who choseyou to hold-her pomegranateis still your sonnetof sepia feelings and flesh,sensuously sweet and fresh.although the mirror never lies,it shows the beauty that livesas it diesand givesits own reflectionof your perfectionto methen and now,each memorytakenby the lensessomehow,preservedby your wordsand curvesin my senses.our dance,that thrilledin its intricatetango on the floor,is still filledwith time intimateromanceand more-talking rubicon of reason,in layer, upon layer of seasonso sedimentarysince you entered me-and i consumedyour silky meshof pink perfumedpomegranate fleshLOTHLORIENi'm come home againin your Lothloriento marinate my mindin your words,and stand behindgood tribes grown blind,trapped in old absurdregressive reasonsand selfish treasons.in this cast of strifethe Tree of Lifeembraces innocent ghosts,slain by Sauron's hosts-and their falling criesmake us wiseenough to riseup in a fellowship of friendsto oppose Mordor's endsand smote this evil strongerand longerfor each one of us that dies.i'm come home againin your Lothlorien,persuadingyellow snapdragonsto take wingand un-fang serpent krakens,while i bringall the racesto resumetheir bloomas equals in equal spacesby removingand mutingthe chorus of cricketswho cheat them from chambered thickets,hiding corruptions older than long grassthat still fag for favours asked.i'm come home againin your Lothlorienwhere corporate warfareand workfareon healthand welfareinfests our tribal bodiesand separate selfin political lobbies-so conscience can't careor shareworth and wealth:to rally dronesof walking bones,too tiredand uninspiredto think things throughand the powerless who see it true.red unites, blue divides,which one are youand what will you dowhen reason decides.I'M GETTING OLD NOWi'm getting old now-you know,like that tree in the yardwith those thick cracksin its skin barkthat tell youthe surface of its lived-in secrets.my eyes,have sunk too inwardin sleepless socketsto playback imagesof ghosts-so, make do with wordsand hear the soundsof my years in yourself.childhood-riding a rusty three-wheel biketo shelled-out houses bombed in the blitz,then zinging home zapped in mudto wolf down chicken soupover lumpy mashed potato for tea-with bare feet sticking on cold kitchen linoi shivered watching the candle burn downracing to finish a book i found in a bin-before Mam showed me her empty purseand robbed the gas meter-the twenty shillingsstained the red formica tablelike pieces of the man's brainssplattered all over the back seatof his symbolic limousineas i watched history brush out her silent secrets.More bio: His poetry has been published in the USA, Canada, Australia, England, Scotland, Ireland, Wales, France, Spain, Germany; Serbia; India and Switzerland in numerous publications including: Dreich Magazine; The Racket Journal; Trouvaille Review; dyst Literary Journal; Impspired Magazine; Literary Yard Journal; Poppy Road Review; Cajun Mutt Press; Rusty Truck Magazine; Rye Whiskey Review; Deep Water Literary Journal; The Huffington Post USA; The Stray Branch Literary Magazine; Crack The Spine Literary Magazine; The Lampeter Review; Panoplyzine Poetry Magazine; Dissident Voice. Check out the first 3 issues of the Lothlorien Journal see the website listed above for more & to order.