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
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.
fast and furious archangel in paint and chrome brings me home- purring megaphonious, combusting with sav and sap 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. 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 tablecloth- 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 its institutions of Moriarty's. some shepherd 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. POMEGRANATE FLESH ask those who grow old- some fruits are nicer when they're riper. you dont stop the clock on the one who chose you to hold- her pomegranate is still your sonnet of sepia feelings and flesh, sensuously sweet and fresh. although the mirror never lies, it shows the beauty that lives as it dies and gives its own reflection of your perfection to me then and now, each memory taken by the lenses somehow, preserved by your words and curves in my senses. our dance, that thrilled in its intricate tango on the floor, is still filled with time intimate romance and more- talking rubicon of reason, in layer, upon layer of season so sedimentary since you entered me- and i consumed your silky mesh of pink perfumed pomegranate flesh 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, persuading yellow snapdragons to take wing and un-fang serpent krakens, 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. I'M GETTING OLD NOW i'm getting old now- you know, like that tree in the yard with those thick cracks in its skin bark that tell you the surface of its lived-in secrets. my eyes, have sunk too inward in sleepless sockets to playback images of ghosts- so, make do with words and hear the sounds of my years in yourself. childhood- riding a rusty three-wheel bike to shelled-out houses bombed in the blitz, then zinging home zapped in mud to wolf down chicken soup over lumpy mashed potato for tea- with bare feet sticking on cold kitchen lino i shivered watching the candle burn down racing to finish a book i found in a bin- before Mam showed me her empty purse and robbed the gas meter- the twenty shillings stained the red formica table like pieces of the man's brains splattered all over the back seat of his symbolic limousine as 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.