When people of
our past speak of us,
they speak of a person
they do not know anymore
and that no longer exists.

the social pace manic in its self-absortion, possession facing possession and what if
the world risks collapsing under the weight of its own irony:
a hedonic frame of mind so devoid of the ******* of life
the tyranny of desire is teaching **** to the naked eyes
a culture stops breathing if it can't let go of its desires to find them again
nothing to be destroyed cause everything is dismantling slowly

going right or left it's the same but not in any corner of the world
the leftovers of God, tautologies in a straightjacket,
cause one has meetings all day but no sleep all night
He/She/They colonize you with the scripture of profit
everything has its price on the expence of being enlivened
some don't have water, others too much of an illusion
some don't have peace, others have haute couture
some haven't eaten, others have molecular cuisine
some have the shelter of the sky, others listen to the echo of Big Bang
this logic of contrast is dreaming of the creativity of decay and
what if politics has become a narcosis, a  drunkenness of words,
while the wisdom of trauma is hidden in billboards,
the text says Politics of Happiness or Diserotica

the depressive society fools itself with the financial ****** of disconnected bodies in search of the last noise of the day
the space of the mind  broken by narrow horizons
the flesh and bone might turn into a virtual dimension

yet
the soul of the world flickers, it covers its solar plexus until we meet again as brothers and sisters of the trees
just because you feel good doesn't mean that
the world feels good too

For decades now
We have serenely, blandly,
Had the Huron horizons
To the North.
All colours of clouds,
Bringing shade or rain,
Snow and flora;
And all the shapes of Noah's zoo,
Morph approaching our soft shores
Of sandcastles and tender fires,
Those milestone from our youth.
Our fresh waters have given much,
And taken more with wailing
For the never returners.
For mothers with terror splashing
Over  faces and maligned hearts and spirits.
The alone times of punishing memories.

my lips feel ****
I a bit vile
I feel decisive
tonight
I'm burning down
the my oh my
Van Gogh's turquoise
inside
self portrait in the wild:
a woman loves to
toast to cloudburst

I think I might
recycle the devil
for poetry's sake,
tonight it smells
of cinnamon,
of flemish paintings

My know it all grin
plastered on the pavement
as I'm given the boot from another
home sweet home
"not so fast, slick..."
should have heard it
should have known it
but pride and folly are my calling cards...
now I must gather up my gear
and flee on down the road
eviction notice pinned on my ***...
they are gonna laugh
probably throw a party
done given me the boot
good and hard
shake me loose from my tree...
should have heard it
should have known it
but pride and folly
are my calling cards...
so wish me luck on down the road
I'm gonna need it
with that dumb
know it all grin of mine
plastered on the pavement

-


all my mistakes in life
add weight to a scale
of self-judgement–

so far i sense
a balance—

yet it feels to me like
i've let so much ballast
get washed overboard...




s jones
2022



.

-

There were five of us working late
when i saw this creature crawling
rapidly across the concrete floor-

one of the employees counted the
legs on its right side, he said there
were seven-teen of them–

more than enough
to carry all of us

We left it be to continue its destiny
in this place where we must make
our living as everything else dies
outside in a midnight autumn frost

A curious distraction,
this singularity —

moving about thirty-four
steps per second in the
midst of a ten hour shift...


s jones
2021


.

Of all the loves in the history of the world, ours was a one that could not be.

Like a newborn child dying the moment it is born, like a flower dropping to the ground the moment it blooms, like a fire put off the moment it begins burning,

Our affections were robbed of a life!

But maybe that is why, this blank space, this nothingness would cherish our love...
Because out of all the loves that stood, ours stood out more.

It was not a smooth trail of ink that took the shape of letters.
It was a blot of ink, a gigantic one that could not take a form and yet left behind a stain for the world to remember-Of a love that stirred hearts only to put them to sleep!

There is this place
the source.....
of being
There is this light....
where we were born
where we return
when time  no longer
lingers.
When all goes dark
and eyes no longer seeing.
While  Life floats away silently
and choir singing hummingly
The  Spirit flows
Into this light
Enlightening  the soul
so bright ......
while crossing over .


Shell ✨🐚