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Strider Marcus Jones

The Ascent of Money


the stars are those

we have forgotten

both living and dead,

floating in clustered constellations

not labouring in rows-

with hair growing grey

and teeth going rotten

singing songs, God's godless pray.

harvesting crops.

chants drowned in clocks

of tobacco and cotton,

the peasants and slaves of civilised nations

duped by liberty

in recent history-

dug out canals, made railways and roads

out of tarmac to tread-

into factories

like tribal junkies

hooked on cheap gin and beer instead

of joining the cholera's watery dead-

ten to a room in a slum and lead-

like human batteries,

sleeping without moonlight

on sarsen stones,

or druid voices in their homes-

where thoughts have no dreams or flight,

just sleep, recharge, get bled.

you have to be poor,

to think utopia

can be something real-

not to exploit or steal

that ambrosia aura of women and children and men

for the spoken wages of despair-

that suck you in,

glad but grim

when times' clock punches that card by the door

and mass myopia

conditions all to labour, keyboard and pen

for food and shelter with a roof and fourth wall

shanty made out of cardboard, wood and tin

in sunny Sao Paolo, where the samba rain leaks in

while orphaned children beg and play

eating the forage of capitalist waste

dodging death squads night and day

imitating Socrates at football to hope to taste

what's inside the cold, glistening towers

casting invisible powers

behind the smoked glass and soldiers of stone

leaving blood and bleached bone

from over there-

where the ascent of money doesn't care

about it all

because its infinity is small.

The Division Bell


they have civilised

the language of hatred

and corruption-

turned it into condensed

subliminal codes

to be absorbed


and aspired to

through elite worship.


this softening,

that swims in intercourse

with Oppositions

and Self mandates

it's wars and poverty-

hides the bodies

from presentations

where the Smile and Fist

work together.


there is no Division Bell

that Speaks and Moves

with and for

the majority

marching past outside-

like Natives

carrying their bags of belongings,

being screened and moved

from lush lands

early into cemeteries

or onto cattle trains

out to desert Reservations.


the Doors

of cold centuries

blow open,

and we see

how Treaties

are still Broken and Abused-

by those we entrust

who have turned

the Globe of Everything

we are meant to Share

into something Bought and Sold

all Right to be Owned and Inherited.


most sheep don't Mass for much-

just a patch of grass to graze

and a shack to shag and sleep in-

a few, have their own field

and privately furnished rooms,

but when they all adore

w and k's first tour

on the front page and tv news

for twelve days of conditioning,

or letch and leer over the tits on page three-

the Universal Flaw in Their Rule and Law

makes them troll and bay for this culling of people-


until it comes for them. 

Strider Marcus Jones is a poet, law graduate and former civil servant from Salford, England with proud Celtic roots in Ireland and Wales. He is the editor and publisher of Lothlorien Poetry Journal
A member of t
he Poetry Society, and nominated for both the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net, his five published books of poetry reveal a maverick, moving between cities, playing his saxophone in smoky rooms. His poetry has been published in numerous publications including: The Huffington Post USA; The Stray Branch Literary Magazine; Crack The Spine Literary Magazine; The Recusant, The Lampeter Review and Dissident Voice.

Convict Chains


rich man and peasant understand

coins change hand,

despite the Magna Carta

we must all barter

to live-


only communists give




same crimes.


so, when reason rains,

i drag my convict chains

to the barrow bog

and cut peat

in feral fog

where motives meet.


six feet down,

sucked back five thousand years

the old town

settlement appears

in full formation

of chattel,


and battle

still at station


to serve.



the round

late night fires,

power plays and lust desires

hearth home homogenous

in Mars and Venus

making love in animal skins

wearing the same sins.


on the long walk home,

some alone

and those together,

believe never

can be changed

and are called strange.



The Dance


pull the roof off

knock the walls down

touch the forest

climb those mountains

and smell the sea



watch how life


in death

going back to land

to reform and be reborn

as something and someone else.


there's no great secret to it all.

no need to overthink it through


food and shelter

fire and shamens

clothes and coupling

used to be enough

with musicians


and poets

interpreting the dance.


then warriors with armies

religions with god

and minds buying and selling

stole the landscape

and changed time.


smash the windows

break down the doors

melt the keys

rub evil words from their spells

and puncture the lungs of their wheels


before they kidnap you from bed

call you dissident

hold you without charge

wheel you out on a stretcher

from waterboard torture

for years

without trial

in Guantanamo Bay.


they are selling

the sanctuary

we made

with our numbers

bringing back chains

making some of us slaves

outside the dance

in the five coloured rings

making winners

and losers

holding flags and flames.

bedroom tax
Sheriff Stars

thistles stretch their prickly arms afar

Black Triangle
Disrupt and Upset

Militant Thistles

prickling the politics of "permanent austerity"

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