In my right eye I feel an old friend has returned
awakening an ancient being,
deceiving the light hidden in Winter evening
grazing in the spectrum of my day.
Clashed imaginings held inside the day’s sediment
voices caught on canvas in morbid praise,
a corrugated tint of moonlight
in frictions of a gown in velvet union.
Suckling on the silver god
Revelling in this enlightened and dark morality
that lived in the throw away prayer of favour,
to the immediate truths,
just a mask in daylight hiding in the shades of inner dusk.
NO HIDING PLACE
I want a square of dryland
no darkness held together with fake plastic neon lamps,
a tomb of soundbaked polythene,
no drone like eyes
a permanent irisstacked in accomplishing circles in source,
comforting only the burial of day thoughts.
No hiding place for us
every door is an eye behind another window,
each frame of glass a caught moment
that we can upload and analyse at will.
No hiding place for us
we are the grains of salt glued between the fingers of the state,
human timers with numbers and a skin
the loyal paladin that is kept as a trusted mouthpiece,
the tread of excrement that smoothers the soft leather on the boardroom floor.
On Saturday I watched the echo in the river
fast rain a slanted line of spears,
piercing the muddy red pinpricked surface
while a changing sky controls light from blemish,
along the waterfront I walk!
Open window mulled wine and German markets
screwed up betting slips piled in empty foamed glasses,
cigarette stubs trail to boisterous plastic tables,
Where a homeless man sales ‘The New Scientist’
beside a busker who is strumming on a waterproof guitar,
the day-walkers and afternoon drunks
journey home before evening begins its quest.
The fat rain comes in short bursts
aswe huddle in shelter and shop entrance
running for that space of dry and bare land,
before the greyish colours turn into a midnight black.
ONE OF THE DORSET SIX
I remember that unfortunate day
dew stuck to leaves
like crystallised sticky diamonds,
I only wanted fairness for rights and pay
yetbranded as some revolutionary tyrant,
In these battered chains of Assize
a planter of the Union seed,
a lexicon of closed liesI, yet another victim from Whiggery.
I’m not plotting blood lust insurrection
they Curbed and imploded the union of working men,
sentencing me to a colony for transportation
no matter how much the mob displayed their own objections,
I held the union
close to my chest
from Tasmanian cell of sweat brown pit,
my name is Mr Loveless
I’m one of the Dorset Six.
When a friend passedbetween the lock of spring
light of summer,
moonlight jarred and hazy shina humming of a life in vested colour,
did we waste our hours in these working skins ?
Resting where you once lay your head
gathering up folded brown boxes,
thedust fell from the chin of Lafayette
overfilled square ashtray clunky glasses
decaying cigarette ends like the lines of dead confetti,
now a carpeted oblong pathway.
I can see the image of you still laughing at this world into the next
dead red vein craved into pimpled thousands
andcircling your tin of Jack.
I packed your material into a dozen empty boxes
nothing more than a paused memory plastic case
material would only remain a still in time
moments frozen dust of ash buried and gone.
Born 1971 Bristol UK, MJ is working on his second collection of poems Dystopia 38.10, He has had many poems published in journals and magazines such as The Dawntreader, The Seventh Quarry, Apogee Journal, Roundyhouse, The Journal, The Cobalt Review, Jawline Review, Poetry Quarterly, Illumen, Sarasvati, and many more.