Poetry Blog by Liam Jones

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The Owl

I awoke
  to the sounds of balloons bursting.

The party
  was over and it was time to go home.

Arrived here
  anonymous, now your name rings to me

Like stars
  burning through history - Hubble’s greatest find.

Slurred conversations
  turn to the problem of dialectics,

How you
  and I can create a synthesis

Maybe with
  flirtatious tones and utopian dreams.

The night

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After i stroke my dog my fingers
smell like wotsits. He tried
to eat them once, he loves cheese.

But now, as I look at the stubs
left there from pearly whites,
I lament our walks in the park when

The bastard castrated a beagle,
'He was just playing' I thought.
Some game.

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In The Course of Time

In the course of time the
Graveyeard has been covered.
A forest it has become.
Now the long gone have shade
From the sun.
Now the head stones are mole
Hills slowly creeping to the sea.

A desolate pathway into the
Sweet, ephemeral light
Has now been covered and overwhelmed
By the bonfire.

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These were our halcyon
days. We would target
buses with crab apples and
B.B's. The late nights
amalgamated, blurred by
missions that drew us to
other towns, kept us set
apart. Our own little
worlds full of mischief and
girls. Drifting in symbiosis.

Now, instead of buses
you target blue veins.
Me, I'm still drifting.

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despair creeps in
a semblance of half life
struggling for years
trying to put up with the strife
all thats come of it are shed tears
and boxes.

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The aftermath was the best bit.
The bones ragged like a shitly
done tetris, and the rivers
that ran rapidly through age-old
cracks in skin poured over you
like a drowning rat.

This was not the first
time, maybe the second or
third, definitely not the worst.
Your overalls washed easily,
and the technicalities tucked
some place no-one could find.

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In a hurried flash clothes,
cotton, silk, were disperesed
around my room. Toes were
twiddling and her hip bones
dug gently into mine.
I remeber this time.
Now I hope for buttons,
the plastic on my fingers;
letting, in myy nose, her perfume

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Seeing the rain cover my window
And the flowers in the garden
Sodden with mud and too much
Rain, I think of you.
We spent christmas apart.
But boxing day we boxed.
Where are you now?
And why are you not here
Beneath tatty sheets with me.

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I'm no watchmaker.

I just get the tea, open
a few letters and requests,
read them out to Him. They
usually get chucked away.
Pretty easy job, except
for the third day, when
I’ve got to move boulders
just to get out the door.

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Shiva, found in a Liverpool alleyway

Traipsing through an alley,
between bins of shit and ash
you saw him sat in a lotus repose.

You knew it was him because
of his locks: tangled and ancient.
A sadhu unknowing of any observers.

You could see the great Ganges,
squalid and yellow, trickle then pour
from the leg of his trousers.

Like the sage he was,
the dishevelled ascetic, misplaced
in his concrete wilderness,


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As he lies stark naked
In an emptying bathtub
He contemplates death
And all of its destruction

He lies subtle, breathing
Softly. Suddenly a former
Lover barges her way in
“Get up you manic-depressive

What is wrong with that statement?

“That is not politically
Correct my darling,you mean
Bi-polar Bastard.”

Who cares.

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Remnants of what once was.
The floor gently curved in
From many shoe-stomps.
The views: well seen and
More recognisable than your mum.
The guide quit his job.
Reason: the repetitive, incessant
Questions. He was born ten
Years after the boom and
Only needed the money
For the weekend, now
Regretting an entire decade.

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mixed signals.

The equivocation was misleading.
You thought you had won the golden ticket
But she never really let you in,
And you only had your wounds to heal.
So from this day forward
No tergiversation.
Only candid, frank, reliable conversation.

It was crystal clear now,
The tune pitch perfect.
In your hallway, behind a freshly
Slammed door, you stood erect,
Disappointed at being the

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Nissan Cherry.

I left the engine running
On the river bank,
heaved a bag of bricks
Onto the accelorator.

The car was old and horrible,
A beast that had to go.
The engine cried and
Screamed too much.

I watched it run and dive
Into the brown drink,
and saw through the rear window
A smiling little face.

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entry picture

In his liquor induced stupor
‘Fuck’ was wrote on the wall
In piss, just for a laugh.

Some collectors, on leaving
The latest Banksy exhibition,
Pontificating ferociously about
the disaffection of our youth
In this apparent nihilistic society,
Caught a glimpse and wondered
How much it would cost
To have this pile of
Bricks gently taken down,
And placed in their gallery.

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