Hope here is dead. Man in a box, Cobain in my head.
Court me some love and spin on my throne,
Of brittle remorse.

Sick in the womb, the silver spoon pollutes.
Tiny tadpole in the pool, grows to patrol the Black Lagoon.
Devouring the newt it once knew.

Fearful men, conceal their worries, in tall tales of courage.
Ironclad, Iconoclast. Kings and heroes alike,
Plant their flags in fields of ash.

Piano and violins
in the hands of artists
string me along
in a peaceful stream of joy
their delicate threads
wrapped around my heart
on a gray morning
to quince my loneliness.

-


take any pen and
pull off the cap,

test-scribble on paper
to see if the machine
on the end of it
will distribute
ink

or

take a
charcoal
briquette and
mark a concrete
wall with your ideas
in full black

either way—

i guarantee that
—somewhere—
an authority will
make an attempt
to pressure wash it
back off with a
water cannon...


s jones
2021


.

How to dress well (and that I'd rather dress comfortably.)
How to hide the laces in my shoes.
That it's apparently "learnt".
How to walk with a limp,
when to walk away.

How to look mean while avoiding eye contact.
Where to find the best coffee.
How to write a bad sonnet.
How to kiss the right way.
Where to find the wrong girls.

How to sing sad songs.
How to roll a decent joint.
How easily a wasted day
can become a wasted life.
How to hold my liquor,
when to hold my tongue,
not to hold my breath.

When enough is enough.
When enough is too much.
When to hold the door open.
How to set a deadline with no intention of adhering to it.
How to feel alone in a packed out club (and where to find the smoking bit).

That time heals nothing
but memories fade.
How long a piece of string is.
That no matter how bad a day you're having, tomorrow can always be worse.

Tomorrow can always be better.

At dinner,
I give her my peppers
she gives me her celery,
and this is how we say I love you.