Boy! Jesus sucks. Satan rules.

Jaq found herself in the arms of Johnny. She had drunk too much. "So, this is what toasting my mother results in" she said. Johnny didn't say anything, the wind was fierce and he wanted to get her back inside the bar for her protection, the scavengers would be coming soon, and he didnt want her to end up just as meat like so many of his pissed up clients. "Johnny" she slurred, "does the name Loriken mean anything to you", Johnny answered "No" but Jaq was not convinced that he was telling the truth. "I heard a voice in the dessert tonight ,Johnny, a voice that revealed the name Loriken, and a code" she said. Johnny studied her intensively through his ugliness. "I have no idea what youre talking about", said Johnny as he fumbled for the gun under the counter, if she said anything else related to name Loriken he was going to shoot her there and then, but there was no need. She slumped down over the barstool and passed out for a second time.

Outside the moon was violent with tempest. She found herself on the floor, drooling with a deep seated feeling of nausea in the stomach. The world seemed to be dissolving, only her and the moons overhead seemed present in this life. She sat up. The dunes seemed to stretch for an eternity, and in that eternity she heard and felt a voice deep within her. "Remeber Loriken, the code is 45xo7g 23ern6", "Jaq, JAQ! find the power within you, turn not back the tides of Fornigast, turn not back youre values". And then she passed out in the sand, the wind driving at her like a sand blaster in the presence of unconciousness.

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Raised up on the wind,
My soul flies free,
All worldly chains broken,
All my tears blown away.

Over the teeth of hills and mountains I go,
Knowing not when or where my purpose,
Till an island in a mystic lake I find,
With ruined tower and ivy scaffolds,
Boughs of Mistletoe,
Boughs of Oak,
A misty isle full of spells and mossy damp.

Down I go,
Between the ancient trees,
Down, down to a stone that bleeds,
Amongst sunlit families of Bluebells,
The remains of bones and swords.

This is my final place of rest,
My final place of timeless thoughts.

© DP Jones 12/05/12

Published June 2012

Red sunset winter fracture through birdsong ice crystals,
Breath is ice device to be born in spring,
Standing stones whisper to the sky.

Reckless is the snow beheaded,
Cut short, blood splatters Saturday's nights,
Wounded he returns home in mist.

Smoke from chimneys conceals secret pregnancy,
A violent fist punches the babe in refuge of a womb,
Freezing rain consumes the bargain of life.

Red sunset winter fracture through birdsong ice crystals,
Breath is valuable as diamonds in the eyes of drunks,
Standing stones are hidden, calling, lost.

© DP Jones 10/02/12

Published March 2012

Neon blue, pink, green, bleeds sin into the streets,
Sin to be treasured, sin to be enjoyed,
The fireworks of New Years Eve dissolve into the oxygen,
Over canals that catch glimpses of florid Strontium in the water,
The whores behind windows, beckon sweet with promises of love,
While leather cops devastate the girls and boys with a handsome smile,
In a café 'Super Pollen' serves mirth, adding sedate ecstasy to the celebrations,
We walk out and watch gunpowder stars exploding into the void,
Score acid of a street dealer with an overcoat of khaki rags,
Then go back to the hotel, to watch David drinking his aftershave.


© DP Jones 23/01/12

published March 2012

Where are you my companion?

In my heart I feel you,
Though we have never met,
Separated by the gulfs of an unyielding world.

Somewhere you are out there, I know,
Concealed behind the moon with Orion,
Or sleeping in the depths of a river,
That flows with languid mists.

Is this your face I see?
Amongst my whirling dreams,
Is this your scent I smell?
Coming from the sorcerer's censer.

Is god so cruel that we cannot be together?

Oh my companion,
Where are you?
I wander the streets searching for you,
But all I ever find,
Is wind blown litter,
The walking dead,
And the warmth of other people's lives,
Leaking through the insulation,
Of complacent windows.

© DP Jones 19/01/12

published March 2012

Work is for robots,
Not people.

© DP Jones 01/12/10

published April 2011

Look out, look out,
There's an orgasm about.
It's trapped in grandma's shoe.
I try and poke it out with a pencil,
But it just wont shift.

Look out, look out,
There's an orgasm about.
It's dancing on the telly.
I try and make a grab for it,
But it just gives me a filthy look,
And warns me not to be so silly.

Look out, look out,
There's an orgasm about.
It's run amok and hid behind the sofa.
I try and fetch it out with a hoover,
But it's firmly wedged in the corner.

Look out, look out,
There's an orgasm about.
It's crawling up the wall.
I try and catch it with a net on a stick,
But it just fights and escapes out of the window.

@ DP Jones 16/04/10

published August 2010

The wraiths are calling,
Through the frigid grey air of a day,
Seemingly eternal like a year,
Like a mirror reflecting a mirror,
In which the earth forms an emulsion,
With an emotionless sky.

Calling, Calling,
From shore to shore,
Across the black sea of a dilated pupil,
Amongst drifting dissonant chords,
The sour music of disappointments,
The white noise of existence,
Bleeding ears,
Bleeding heart.

Calling, calling,
Through the faces of angry clocks,
Falling from the sky,
This occasion's rain,
Shattering on the ground,
Spilling intestines of cogs and levers,
Forming constellations and galaxies,
Of an unknown parallel world.

“Come with us,
Come home.”

© DP Jones 09/03/11

published December 2011

Drakkar comes,
Under wounded stars,
With bitterness,
Born and raised,
From the sourest milk,
Of Hel's rotting breasts.

Drakkar comes,
On storm stricken seas,
White horses reddened,
With Nazarene souls,
Made foam by fate,
And loyalties to feral beliefs.

Drakkar comes,
Baring the new flag of England,
The dragon's head gules,
Made tincture fast,
With the blood of saints,
And scurrilous revenge.

Drakkar comes,
He is the hope of ancient men,
Bringing flame and fury,
A proud new history,
Of Pagan beasts,
Ruthless,
Lascivious,
Drunk,
Untamed.

© DP Jones 11/06/10

published March 2011

In the morning,
When first light begins to saturate the air,
In the morning,
When the night is put to flight,
And the blossoming hawthorns,
Willingly accept the dew.

In the morning,
They are singing,
A chorus of ardent noise,
Of things unsaid by human tongue.

Cant you hear the names of the Pagan dead,
And all those misty tales,
Of Christian treachery,
Tragedy and dread?

Men,
Women,
Children slain,
And those who survived,
Force fed with bread and wine.

The soil ripped from their hands,
And their lands,
Claimed and divided,
By foreign thieves,
All hideous,
All diseased.

You gods of sky and earth,
When will our resentments cease,
And the birds in the morning,
Silent be?
When will these dues be done,
And the currency of revenge,
Paid in full?

© DP Jones 22/05/10

published september 2010

minus 100 points for submitting someome elses work.

An acquaintance of mine,
Recently showed me his tattoos,
They were a mixture of ill thought out concepts,
And Chinese symbols,
Which is strange,
Because,
He says,
He “cant ****ing stand the Chinese!”.

Work is for robots.
Not people.

Arbeit mach frei!