Issue 31: Doug Jones

from POSTS


4 / 5 / 23


“Now’s the time to come back, open the link between the body, its

tribulations, and the world. In the humaned hut, with all conscience

ideation religious thought in with you. To rag the doubt, then dissolve

a world down its most ecstatic form. The face. Bridge to the sun, a

transduction between ourselves and vital space. The small hut, a

traveller calm, in it, very comfortable in her human voice”


11 / 5 / 23


“The fire toleration, permissible variations in the sense of a truth – was

set in a circle that everyone shared, and was among us – like a dog

rose, or an ancient beast stretched of flame. An oval fire – that

consumed a narrative, a fate of a million years before – a forbearance,

owned in the substance, permitted, in the conflagration – impossible

to escape. In the liquid told, rose – in the brent of a circle”


18 / 5 / 23


“Atta, a very human woman, a good woman, enjoyed the carnival,

participated in it with joy. Decorated the cart with great enthusiasm,

continuous for 1 week – weirdly, to smile, became almost a moral

thing. Enjoyed the grotesque costumes, realised the brief, but

important role of allegory. In the great parade – the last Sunday,

articulated and moving – the soul, Atta – filled her up with children”


25 / 5 / 23


“Tain, an intense, austere man, I think he is kind, was hiding under the

earth, waiting for the moment where he could be seen. Listening to

the music of the bending of the soil – earth better adapted to the

sounds of death than any of us. What a strange song – the earth,

witless with opium + drink. Threw small, fractured coin over him, a

soldier, a slave. Why does he hide? Tain, as the buildings rack”


1 / 6 / 23


“We’re all recidivists in abstract space, that’s Doru’s view. Look at him,

slipping back to psychosis. The guy’s so vast, what’s the use of that?

Nothing can be legislated outside of him, or in him. He’s quite perfect.

Says is a woman her body? Well, what about you, Doru? Where does

the law go in yr affect? Beyond disappointment. Not 1 cent utile, not

real – a cellular federation. Did they make of you a fort?”


8 / 6 / 23


“How can we change the human game, asked intelligent, anxious

Freda? If we take one act out our routine act, what do we put in its

place? In the draw toward the earth, or to the heaven’s practice, in

association with your place. In the symmetry of the day. What’s it to

be? A knitter to make you something for your feet, a sports type to

change the game. Look at the letter Freda, imagined god”


15 / 6 / 23


“Giono, has a belief in progress, but seen, shared in the organisation

form. He’s very old, more that time can measure. Chips away the list

of workers who flow like sediment, slow and older – in and through his

laptop. Attempts to know this, promote it to the stone. Struck by how

long the algorithm is there. How features in the data puzzle his human

fear, kindness, emerge + flow the employee fear”


22 / 6 / 23


“How long is this Caucasian rug, Olga? When will we get to carry it

upstairs? We better do it soon, because you are strong and passionate

– and nothing like that lasts. The rug is beautiful – we all agree –

pattern which suggests shapes you might contemplate in nature, but

also outside of time. A shrine or something hanging, conversant with

our courts of attention, the upstairs of the house will need”


29 / 6 / 23


“Sorry, didn’t catch your name, would not have thought of it twice, but

you sat there squealing as Andrew Tate, reciprocating engine in

human form, pistons pump, exhaust fed, to drive the lights of the

Yarmouth Wool. Intimidatory, tearful sees of feed found selves,

reengined gale in the stream. Abandoned guv trash of his lone key

shooter, energy fear, off. Have give himself many shops to pull”


6 / 7 / 23


“The only true wretched vision is that of a snail on a decayed – part

painted wall. Strangest. Hold your goldest to the gaze – mills on the

floor. The interminable distance of things. The smallest part of the

universe – to evoke a clarity around its establishment. A word

estranged in the action of an authority. In the surface of a body – the

precise articulates of a foot. I remember it – down is the snail’s meal”


13 / 7 / 23


“150-million-year-old creature move through the cross kept earth – a

legate for what is incomprehensible in the animal – that such a thing

lived – so balanced. Stone calm at the sense of the base that is us –

only to be made trickling out, through the fossil record of what a

clouded beast. Narrow in its physicality – tact in its heart roars, I

imagine, that it was wise. Time. We are the sole eye”

Doug Jones has published six volumes of poetry with Veer, Salo, Contraband and Loxham Press. Work has also appeared in datableed, VLAK, Chicago Review, Pamenar, Junction Box, Tentacular, Golden Handcuffs Review as well as a few other places. Doug works as a full time GP in Great Yarmouth. He is clinical lead for the homeless, drugs and alcohol outreach teams.

Copyright © 2023 by Doug Jones, all rights reserved. This text may be used and shared in accordance with the fair-use provisions of Copyright law. Archiving, redistribution, or republication of this text on other terms, in any medium, requires the notification of the journal and consent of the author