Watching the world turn through a series of paint-marker windows, Of barely square houses, not homes, Drawn poorly and hung on the fridges of week-to-week mothers, With cashed checks strewn on the street, and fathers, all fucking deadbeat, Why do they always pack up and leave? Moments, passing in front of me. Houses all full … Continue reading Summer Day Sadnesses
writing
Children Of Men
Out past the blinking lights of electric existence, far beyond the polluted horizons- A single cry echoes across the clamouring earth. From the dirtied, used, ruined bellies of haggard mistakes falls an angel. Never has anything purer graced the soil upon which that miracle lays- For this glorious moment, all of human filth, destruction, hatred, … Continue reading Children Of Men
A Fictional Letter Of Unrequited Love.
My dear, how do I tell you I love you so that it rings truer than any other triplet of words you’ve heard? So that the sincerity, the profundity, of my honest convictions can permeate into the depths of your well-kept soul. This conundrum would deprive me of countless nights of summer night’s sleep during … Continue reading A Fictional Letter Of Unrequited Love.
Tired
Sat down at a creaking desk, With a broken pen and rusty hands, I write this down; The draft from the window gives my skin a texture, My coffee is cold. It’s raining outside again - I’m yawning once more Huddled in a borrowed jumper, I’ve almost found the right words – But not … Continue reading Tired
Butterflies
A short story about indecision and dissatisfaction. When I was young and naïve, and my world had been delighted between sunlit smiles and white winter snow fights, I formed the error in judgement that would come to be my hamartia. I made the stupid mistake of believing, even in my childish whims, that if I … Continue reading Butterflies
‘Lonely People Are Always Up In The Middle Of the Night’
Staring out up into the abundance of stars and making wishes between my visible breaths, Watching how my whispered words fogged up the window- Then disappear like thoughts, My hands are empty, and the fingertips are cold, Pressing them gently against my skin- sending shivers like ripples over a calmed sea. My favourite book lies … Continue reading ‘Lonely People Are Always Up In The Middle Of the Night’
Butterflies
Last night I dreamt of butterflies, made from silk, then light, then paper – Fluttering between my words and breaths, our eyes were ships, and my hands an anchor We were swept away in tides of fallen wings, dark-veined and too fragile to touch – I watched as they crumbled in my irises, into waves … Continue reading Butterflies
Green Stars
Staring at the green stars curl around our gold fingertips, Sat on the floor, like children, between the pillow fort – and infinity Tracing the outlines of dragons made of blue smoke that waft over the sky Above us Then we’re in a rain forest, in the flickering candlelight under a waterfall made from silk … Continue reading Green Stars
Pray For Rain
I think perhaps I may have prayed too hard for rain; The white clouds have been bruised, beaten purple with my insistent demands Water squeezed, stolen from the pores of the empty skies Terrified fling themselves to the Earth - No, it is not water that falls, but tears Tears falling down from her heavenly … Continue reading Pray For Rain
An Existence In Art – Chaos Theory
I watch as the stars swim in and out of existence, serenely oblivious to the screaming disarray on Earth Silently dipping, twinkling, dancing across the vacuum of infinity just above me. I bring my eyes down to the chaos beneath my warm fingertips, but even this mess has an order Everything I touch has a … Continue reading An Existence In Art – Chaos Theory
Alicia Jones Poetry 