Doug Jones
From POSTS
24/2/16
“The cardinals might’ve understood, but I dared not frighten
them more – fundamental outline of an opponent, the
other, grafted from an own number, boiling beneath brown
pall of trade, prayer made leuks, red suns. Wasn’t a man
as I understood it – had wandered away, stood jigging
alone, idiotically in mind of Rabbits, birds. ?What economy,
season was with the rejected flesh. 1, immunity”
3/3/16
Wouldn’t have happened without such bones. Not here,
with no fulcrum to swing over. Hips – white, silent-
essential to produce + not so dimorphic as to bold a chorus
on; as when going thru a door or ascending a stairway to
eat. Without meetness of the shoulder, where would be
justice, or hands? We need formulaic, calculated, bone –
propelled in soft, fat tissue – density, axis diminish. Poor
work”
9/3/16
“Behold its form, my car – I’d gone extinct, unprovided with
lights – but to talk of its skeleton – to see it, pointing at a
sun, covered in fat and grease, engine to move in her dark
foundations. Feels sorry for sick who cover its wheels with
1000s of their buttered legs, who gave up flesh for sliding
ticks and now are lost in fusion, avid. Off car, glide upon
vast, cultured cords – fresh pressed, found boney”
16/3/16
“All could be seen of the King, when the war was done,
wrapped in Matt hide of a deer/its head of cork, were his
shoes. What was he like, bad king, after such riots? Did he
get the bone structure of an animal, or bear the cuts of a
tree? Was certainly much smaller, fitted easily into the
vasculature of his remaining men. Indefinable tissue –
circulant. He crops vast quantities of prokaryotes. In hell”
23/3/16
“?Is anything more electronegative than you – jenny Wren,
strange heated knot – in tree wall church or football bar,
rebounding – Incomplete dancing figure, hunchback,
hidden sack? So blue collar, make ceremony of performing
a single man/a salt. O Lent, holiday Wren, how you
carnival as a black precipitate bird. Reborn people don’t
take to you, but you get me off; the burning again, to alms”
30/3/16
“Thorn, at moment of birth, meristem, insatiable plastic
wand to bloated aridity, coat with blood forms woken up by
gales. Scale – skeletal part, of other cell models, mould
to full synthetic health – in forest alone to organogenesis +
alertness. In slave growth toward its own sun, but
remembering too to pierce the ground, in passion, want –
compelling every green, silver part to hopeless rage”
6/4/16
“Thorn, too – what a, joy bird – tangle round operating stem
of theatre, rheum – between death, life like a celtic stream,
who contain her kids dipping in + out of eternal hollows,
who link underworld to yr hip. It never end, speaking thorn,
rendered capsule – marrow, ligamentum teres – scrub,
grow up – evolving from yr poetry, hood a godly bone. Go,
walk – yr better, wet in the filthy blood of the Rows”
13/4/16
“Food to the world, 0 thorn – sat up, classic vertebral brick
form of dense piety, you can’t digest, bare food*that lie in
its own wound below salt, you to heaven strength, then
water. Berried escarpment, a mine of prayer, with fattened
forms of sheep, cows – groan in milk, in trucks vast oval.
dark. red warehouse, open of its own head meditations of
an HGV, driver on water. Food – To the earth”
20/4/16
“The Poor, poor thorn, has vivid memory of space + life,
time across stars seen in its fat, troubled movement round
a home, taking in every colour on the shelf. Patent, absurd
begging entry to long forgotten suns, to inevitable rebuff or
citalopram – yr wheezy kid from a lost evolution – with her
white heart on her face, uneatable. How I begged you to
stay, be a moon again, but you had finished”
27/4/16
“Denser thorn I habit, single tree fissured stem – built brown
knot in grows – made to merge with my sole self = attic,
common – allowed in paint great May tree/as taut, collect –
like a human beam of sun. I love driving that car over the
heaven out which the machine derived + who tend all
credit. From her back sugar grows kind.. 300 dream years
of people, mind, dispensed on a day like Mass”
Copyright © Doug Jones 2018
Doug Jones was born in Romford and initially studied English at Warwick before completing an MPhil on the poet Bill Griffiths. At this time he fell in with Bob Cobbing’s Writers Forum group, which he cites as a huge influence. After college, he worked as a nurse in east London for many years and then as a doctor in Norfolk. He is married with two children and currently works as a GP in Yarmouth. He has published two poetry books with Veer. Work has also appeared in Tears in the Fence, datableed, VLAK, Junction Box and a few other places.