pour down the poison

by D.S Jones

The editors can wait

The women can wait

The world can wait

Fury took a good punch in the twelfth round only to 

Get a draw

The blood can wait

The sheets can wait

The heart can wait

The passion can wait

The blood can wait

Nothing in a spinning room 

Feels real except for more death

More heartache 

All that matters now is the dying

One gulp at a time

Swallowing the poison

Like a thousand 

Porcelain drains

Poems by D.S. Jones are available to read in Painting Lines On The Highway To Hell. Available now exclusively for Kindle. 

A Poet’s Advice

A Poet’s Advice

By D.S. Jones

I don’t believe in myself 

the young writer says

great

I bet you don’t believe in society either

I tell him

he tears away the seal on a fresh pack of cigarettes

and realizes his smoking is a form of luxury

he is happy to kill himself

in such a dignified way

I wipe my mouth and tell 

him we at least have something in 

common

and we walk through the woods on our way,

both exhaling the primitive beautiful

smoke of life surrounding us

Poems by D.S. Jones are available to read in Painting Lines On The Highway To Hell. Available now exclusively for Kindle. 

Rust In Peace Carl Sandburg

Rust in Peace Carl Sandburg

by D.S. Jones

Listen to the whistle of the old steam train.

Neil Young says the old steam train is coming.

Hum your way through Cali and back and get a million

            dollars.

                          What for?

                   Backward and forward,

                   Year in, year out,

Neil Young says the old steam train is coming.

Poems by D.S. Jones are available to read in Painting Lines On The Highway To Hell. Available now exclusively for Kindle.

More Questions Than Answers

I don't know what I'm doing with my life
No one I know does
We just get up and go to work
Write the checks that keep the lights on,
The dishes washed and the coffee hot
On the weekends we retreat to the small warm corners of the world where we can eat, drink beer or tea when the rain falls
The coffeehouses can be our home, last refuge or the pub
Picnics in the park when the lights first come on
The sound of birds the only primal scream we can stand to hear in our busy working lives

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