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Strider Marcus Jones

Visigoth Rover


i went on the bus to Cordoba,

and tried to find the Moor's

left over

in their excavated floors

and mosaic courtyards,

with hanging flowers brightly chamelion

against whitewashed walls

carrying calls

behind gated iron bars-

but they were gone

leaving mosque arches

and carved stories

to God's doors.


in those ancient streets

where everybody meets;

i saw the old successful men

with their younger women again,

sat in chrome slat chairs,

drinking coffee to cover

their vain love affairs-

and every breast,

was like the crest

of a soft ridge

as i peeped over

the castle wall and Roman bridge

like a Visigoth rover.


soft hand tapping on shoulder,

heavy hair

and beauty older,

the gypsy lady gave her clover

to borrowed breath,

embroidering it for death,

adding more to less

like the colours fading in her dress.

time and tune are too planned

to understand

her Trevi fountain of prediction,

or the dirty Bernini hand

shaping its description.

Pyramid Prison


in detritus metronomes

of human habitation

the ghost of Shelley's imagination

questions the elemental,



and ribosomes

of DNA,

reverse engineered

that suddenly appeared

as evolution yesterday.


her monster mirrors dark wells

of monsters in our smart selves,

the lost humanity and oratory

that fills laboratory

test tubes

with fused



to dreams

of flat forward faster


to disaster

and barbarism's

ectopic extinction.


this is our pyramid prison,

where all souls

and proles

climb the debased

opposite steps of extremism,

like Prometheus Unbound,


sitting around

the crouching sphinx

abandoned by missing links.


free masons of money and wars,

warp the alter of natural laws,

so reason withers

and wastelands rust-

no longer rivers

of shared stardust


in the equal symphony of spheres

in space,

filling our ears

with subwoofer bass,






Strider Marcus Jones © 2023

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