Life is Flamenco by Strider Marcus Jones

why can’t i walk as far

and smoke more tobacco,

or play my spanish guitar

like Paco,

putting rhythms and feelings

without old ceilings

you’ve never heard

before in a word.


life is flamenco,

to come and go

high and low

fast and slow-


she loves him,

he loves her

and their shades within

caress and spur

in a ride and dance

of tempestuous romance.


outback, in Andalusian ease,

i embrace you, like melted breeze

amongst ripe olive trees-

dark and different,

all manly scent

and mind unkempt.


like i do,

Picasso knew

everything about you

when he drew

your elongated arms and legs

around me, in this perpetual bed

of emotion

and motion

for these soft geometric angles

in my finger strokes

and exhaled smokes

of rhythmic bangles

to circle colour your Celtic skin

with primitive phthalo blue

pigment in wiccan tattoo

before entering

vibrating wings

through thrumming strings

of wild lucid moments

in eternal components.


i can walk as far

and smoke more tobacco,

and play my Spanish guitar

like Paco.

I’m Getting Old Now by Strider Marcus Jones

i’m getting old now-

you know,

like that tree in the yard

with those thick cracks

in its skinbark

that tell you

the surface of its lived-in secrets.

my eyes,

have sunk too inward

in sleepless sockets

to playback images

of ghosts-

so make do with words

and hear the sounds

of my years  in yourself.



riding a rusty three-wheel bike

to shelled-out houses bombed in the blitz,

then zinging home zapped in mud

to wolf down chicken soup

over lumpy mashed potato for tea-

with bare feet sticking on cold kitchen lino

i shivered watching the candle burn down

racing to finish a book i found in a bin-

before Mam showed me her empty purse

and robbed the gas meter-

the twenty shillings

stained the red formica table

like pieces of the man’s brains

splattered all over the back seat

of his rambolic limousine

as i watched history brush out her silent secrets.

Hot Rod by Strider Marcus Jones

fast and furious

archangel in paint and chrome

brings me home-

purring megaphonious,

combusting with sav and sap

that i glimpse

peeking into warm grill chintz-

then she lifts her corset bonnet

and lets me touch her glinting bones

secreting home spun


attracting, like moon and sun-


and mnemonic

old senses,

fallow and fenced

soon become drenched

quiller and squirter

in that linguistic converter-

glow mapping,


slowly blown

in the metronome.

Telepathic Lotus by Strider Marcus Jones

hot ride
in you,
quick quim
cum too,
shaft slide
deep wide,
grip him
veined blue.

deep throat
with smoke,
moans moat
tongue like a limpet
on your moon-
crescent lit
syrup spoon.

rocked round your rim
four fingers in,
soft stroke
your high note
in drab dusk
and damp dawn-
through its musk
warm swarm.


Strider Marcus Jones – is a poet, law graduate and ex civil servant from Salford/Hinckley, England with proud Celtic roots in Ireland and Wales. A member of The Poetry Society, his five published books of poetry are modern, traditional, mythical, sometimes erotic, surreal and metaphysical He is a maverick, moving between forests, mountains and cities, playing his saxophone and clarinet in warm solitude.