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Man May 18
Hot ***** served up,
The rattlings and ramblings of lust.
Of poets helplessly in love,
Of writers ***** to ****.
What sad silences they can elapse to,
What pleasant rows they can get in
Feeling no need to record them
Free from needing any interpretation.
Quiet are the stanzas & verses
Of true lovers,
Their words now reserved for each other
Man May 18
Like a nereid,
Acutely aware of how to cause a flow.
But I was mistaken,
Sprawled across the ground as
Dianthus grows.
She thought herself a hunter.

I wish I were prey.
neth jones May 20
i fed on your gushy sunshine
i feed on the void black line   that centres all of your smiles
          and fall foreign in felty dreams   of extremities in distance
untravelling   a bursting sense of yelp   back across my lone moor of memory
                            for that  i am blue wound

there is love in life and liver in pâté
it's food and a crush in on me
squeezing out   my colours ruin with blame

                                                       - a discharge
neth jones May 16
repurposed
   some are led              
      whilst others follow
   one in   one out        
      regurgitate   swallow
[27/04/24]
abi Apr 15
It is officially silly season
where there is no time for reason
and anyone can get away with treason
but even you can admit to falling to pieces

only seen from afar
you are like a shooting star
and if I get too close I'm left with a scar

I hope I'm not you're secret
but if I am would you keep it

so take my broken pieces and please make them cohesive
neth jones Apr 6
hungry
belly growling
go    c a n n i b a l i s t i c
on   victims     of   my   appetite
people flee me with their tidy routine
t r a u m a t i c a l l y    busted up
meat flowers    devoured
my glutton grows
hungry
rictameter style
Jeremy Betts Apr 1
Does a poem write itself?
Do they exist before created?
In essence, existing all around us
Absorbed into the psyche
Processed through the brain
Sent to a hand
Finished through the tip of a pen
Too then again
Be consumed by another human person
Producing a new translation
A different interpretation
But there's limits to randomization
Will we ever get to the point where every thought has been expressed?
Every possible sentence arrangement has been recorded and sent to the press?
Is there still the possibility that an original thought can be had?
It's a silly concept but maybe
One day writers block will be victorious
There's only so many different ways that these words can be organized into
Though, I can't imagine what that'll look like
When every thought has been thought through
When nothing's new
Will it still continue?

©2024
neth jones Mar 3
scupper the dawn
   with curtains   redrawn
a self made mourning
anti haiku
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