P. Jones b.1984

Beyond the window,
whispered in rain,
there is language

without the soundtrack
rattle of prescription hands
that touch, feel, lift

and inspect while
shuffled blanked cover
to hushed chorus

student theatre,
busying secret words
for midnight intelligent.

Curtain turns to glass
when time’s firm hand pushes
you from patient to specimen.

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Untitled #1

The knife was sharpened
and needed;
I was one of the unfortunate ones.

The scythe was sharpened
but not needed;
I was one of the lucky ones.

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Reflection

How low has the face fallen
that reflects before
a blur of scot-clad wall?

Fluorescent knifes gorge sleepless
cracks, shaking and jolting and swaying
heavy in the morning stale.

How long before daybreak
fires the temple and pupil darkness
burns while drinking the city trough.

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Doctors’ Report

The cotton wool field crosses the bright sky
Through the brown wooden frames of my window,
Teasing me with outside wonder. But I
Am here, taking it easy, taking it slow,
Observing the scurrying nurses, to
And fro like working ghosts in silk white sheets,
They pass my ridged blanket and curtain blue.
Beneath the mountain range cover, complete
Are the surgeons’ actions at my groin,
Covered by the snowfield dressing, its lips
Caressing where my two bruised bodies join,
Protecting the gorge from my fingertips.
“It’s out!” smiles news bearing joyful faces,
But no word if it left any dark traces.

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Morning Relief

Gently, gently;
Gingerly stepping forth,
Through the curtain haze.

This is the moment
When all is gone
Can register its absence.

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Haiku #2

On the journey to
sleep there grows sweet violets
on your garden path

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It’s easier to pretend that it doesn’t hurt

It’s easier to pretend that it doesn’t hurt
when I’m alone on the edge of the wall
with only an endless blanket as my companion.

But then you arrive to open my eyes
to the black, without a whisper, a kiss
or a gentle breath on my neck.

You leave as quickly as you came
and I have to start the long navigation
again, without trespassing on the land you possess.

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Mirrors

Fresh from God’s womb,
she smiled
and immediately
lit the mirror
I had ignored.
“Come harvest
the love from my breast;
the warmth from my groin;
the lust deep
in my heart.”

Truth hides behind the reflection
of a mirror, so I leaned forward,
closed her mouth,
and continued to fumble the darkness.

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Not a whisper of the dust’s heart beat

Not a whisper of the dust’s heart beat;
Not a touch of a hot breeze;
Not a sigh from the nostril’s breath;

This is a moment to wrap
around yourself and escape
the sticky kaleidoscope skinned city

before clattering railway
veins pump your body, jarred,
cut-throat nerved

back to it’s stinging heart.
Hold the silence still, to breast
and lungs were the warmth can remain.

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Where raw flesh reflected

Where raw flesh reflected
neon glow; Where deep rivers

flowed; Where poetry’s jaw
sucked and sharp teeth

separated hate and love,
life’s blossom buds spread

their black arms to reclaim
what was stripped before

God’s golden plough harvested
his bitterest seed.

But like all earthquakes;
like all tsunami,

life can grow once more
on fresh ground, yet behind

tight eyelids, the earth
still shakes and the gasp

for one last breathe
become more desperate.

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