Doug Jones

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“Old pine forest, formless life. Who read yr face, trees? 
What did that face mean? 1st image: in light, 2nd, found 
something like you, autonomous, to a map. Slavish. 
Short lived - + a threat: ghost cracked image of water, 
trees, something majestic, with worlds. When should it 
die? True representation, a nature, which you must 
understand – if you are ever to understand hell. Tree 
colour, the wrath”


“Anthony + Cleopatra, the selling face of bounce – fatso 
death, toys. As usual Anthony’s got a big smile on his 
face. He hawks, shifts his weight over the dense 
coloured marking of Patra’s course. Looking back on it 
later, it’s hard to decide who, ultimately, destroyed the 
timeless product. Small jerks forward over the 
ubiquitous surface of hallucinated idolatry. Cleopatra a 
white lead, bounce”


“What a beautiful day, in the catch. Demeter’s from hell + 
streets begging, burgeoning with independent women, 
springs dark clothes – face made of oaks far bigger than 
their heads – extraordinary forest grown up. Seriousness 
of ancient seniority runs of, emerges of a sun, old light – 
comparisons every gas. Never far off a carpet of new 
skin or homes. Demeter, his a picture of fire”


“Didn’t see my ambassadors coming, by post, or online, 
for they intended a reality not of a contracted issue. 
Exhausted, sombre, their old-fashioned diplomacy stood 
at the gate of my room. Wounds got arranged, thus, 
overseas - + shipped home. Notes handled with grooves 
and tropes, filled the office. Strange disjunction – 
between the donor the ambassadors said, and the 
dressings I couldn’t describe”


“Iron chef, fall down with a bad head – brings to sudden 
end battle against his own supper – vs a pig – his veg. 
Was the chef chief vector of this interrelation? In the 
found nature of their correspondence? Certainly, he was 
more alive than ever – brain broke, bled out – lost in 
consciousness to resorb a spared percept of food. New 
cells, who are they now – to challenge his sleep? gone 
quiet contestant”


“You’re either alive or you’re not – bean + that’s what’s 
going to happen, yet no binary’s completely true or 
there’d never be a breeder. Outliers give the 
governance to a falsehood – for it’s there, in the gut, 
where dead’s reimagined by enzyme action of ?slave – 
money, being, things unknown. Cryptogenic, in wonder, 
is chyme death or life.. Roll out the stone muscle, man’s 
born. Day as a wasp”


“NHS at 72. International money the tender plants, green 
hounds tongue – is a poppy. Associated with ex-cons, 
accommodated on a water meadow back. Were long 
days – looking for Morgan Stanley in the interrelation of 
living things. Many objects have breath, but none of 
them are real – these are the skyscrapers. Found a grey 
dagger, firm & nobody. Eternal plant – laid down at J.P. 
Morgan’s bed”


“About the drowning. Dad said he saw the girl in trouble, 
but thought it was a swan at the time. Black skin – 
clothes inside out, collapses in water still. Where’s her 
cottons now? what coffees bought for her tonight, + 
teas? Which fundamental component was her agony? 
Dress was from a sail boat, with not a driving part. Its 
sum, sum, never a machine, a slave ship, deep physical 
composite – no charge”


“Walking down a road, saw this coat on the floor + 
thought – well that’s not much use to him now, not as a 
coat. Purified it in fire of course + the poor person inside 
– what a song + dance. Now I do nothing. He was in my 
room last week, sat very quiet, still. In factory 
tenements, convulsing hands, keened desire, these are 
the acts. But please, this infant’s hungry, + she needs to 
have some milk”


“New mother comes in, burnt out, face, says. Have given 
birth to a mute child, now I’m placed inside. Who 
brought him in the world? No harmony at the gates of 
milk, in immanence. Spend £251 (child element) against 
charms, speeches who corrupt his body, that cause him 
pain. Maybe should’ve used it to buy back land on he 
was reckoned > for I love him. Where’ll I set him down 
to talk?”


“Good people. If war is it muffins, mutton + biscuits. THE 
SALT LICKS, nutrition fresh from frozen big walls. 
Clay’s got most goodness – like that forever, trace 
elements don’t suffer the sleepers at all. Reactive ship 
protein, THE NEW HOUSE FOOD - magnesium stops 
hungry, Crown Farm workers get through. Buffalo / 
neighbour crowd round the bridegroom – feeling the 
mother, a rigging. Intensely..”


“Howcome whenever you meet with authority you 
leave with nothing, satan. With yr play colt American-Indian-
boy – scout rules. Inclothes, in fancy dance round the 
lower part of hell – trad a £ spear at devils who crowd 
the ground. Is that what you want, chief? Be embraced 
by hell, agitated – consumed? Or let back into white 
camp now? But no, you can’t have more sports, silly, 
that’s gone”


“Stroked my arm, satan, gently, with some affection. 
We’d just met + you were old, 90, so how could you be 
coming on? + aren’t you tired? Is very hot in hell, will all 
white devils buzzing, catcalling, wanting you to wash 
them out their crimes. – so that when we met yr 
extermination wouldn’t be about them, only. A long 
burning darkness satan, with you. Promise to sweep the 
world of contact”


“Hell, staggering with the One devil – damned, held 
destructive in the RTA – smashing off the page a God, 
the frightened child who’s fed on KFC, is – what eternal 
creation was, hammered on its face a cheap, missing 
man. The made redemption, life? – on slip roads, 
natures of a chicken act of work, a 1000 motors fields – 
child. (was never put part of that car) is an adult woman
 – her food + soul cast”


“Heaven that’s existed for all eternity + so has no idea of 
help – darkness/ignorance beneath it. A love divine – 
made to trap evil, nothing in them will die. Jesus 
struggling with his food problem – sometimes as a boy. 
Or a girl – the archetypal perfect one – 1st seeds, small 
cuts to the arm. Form thoughts. How to go + be? A tree 
with a bench by it – miracles in His forfeiture. Jesus is 
like this bull”


“Moon crater. One day I noticed that my patients with a history of 
domestic violence later received radical hysterectomies. A workday, 
you drive home, see people walking their dogs, talking kindly to them, 
re charmed, their faded grace. Pet pictures, cat picture cards, 
memorabilia of good animals, kitten in a boot, things for which you 
became clear, get behind your ground glass chair, the screen”


“In great confusion + the moon, look up. In the morning the sun wins, a 
thin clever victory, but there’s nothing to hold, in the light of the day 
my no ink ID is a trick. A cheat. sky, duty sunlight giving state 
appeared, one can almost touch.. There’s rage + love + sport twice, 
the greatest chimera of them all. Chasing the reflection of the moon, 
the investigation of the moon money, the lungs’ unheated lake”


“Looks like patient x’s mind has exhausted him. Coughing for the 
underdog, from prison, a clear white water in the ruin of the town. 
Nature is this. As water poured on x’s body, over a black bough in 
venality, rage – for as long as we can stand looking. Evil gets back 
from the woods to talk to our law, the doctors and him. This fool of a 
pt, all shouty – the chips of a tree – sentences in nature. Calm him”


“I’ve never been so happy the new mother said. Earlier, walking the 
strip, Frances pointed out a giant toy windmill put in front a Georgian 
house. How ugly. But are these the gradients, key ruptures in space, 
moments, that aggregate + bind dear child. Vivify the tough cell. Who 
can be topped – look – where the baby is. First come out to as yet 
neutral frame? Harmony. In front the mother only power”

Doug Jones writes: "I am a doctor in Yarmouth, a very poor costal town in England. I have set myself the task of writing a short poem every week - about that really. The later poems in the section I have sent are my very burnt-out responses to working through, in rocky PPE, the coronavirus blankness.

"Prior to being a doctor, I worked as a nurse in east London and completed a MPhil on the anarchist poet Bill Griffiths. While doing that I managed to fall in with Bob Cobbing's Writers Forum group, which then contained Sean Bonney and Jeff Hilson among a lot of others. Not surprisingly, it was a huge influence.

"Three sections of these posts have been published by Veer, a fourth by Salo Press. Sections, before collection, have also appeared in the Chicago Review, datableed, VLAK, Litmus, tentacular, BlazeVOX as well as several other places."
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