“Look in the tight, hard knot at the top the bed + you’ll see

concrete faces of women in it – struggling, ragged – like the

pictures of gunmen you get in a yellow walled bus station

concourse, who eyeball, sans insight, tired queues of the 50%

of people about to leave town. Fat, dug faces looking out to

raven a blunted yellow room – a loneliness, an abandon – back in

bed, they curled away, manifest, set”




“Hundred broken windows in the maternity hospital, but the

nagging thought if I’ve not made a new hundred yet -? is that

still relevant.. What about your plans. Have you the weight of

still being rose in the yard.. But these are a fire’s thoughts –

what’s it like to understand, grace, of what the other stems in

the yard describe – what may they make of our walled, measure,

a slow great born rose of glass”




“Turning R into the A143 it struck me, on x/y – they say all the

right things – get themselves admitted to the genus, or were it

the family – but they are still as yellow as the daffodil that’s

written in an entirely different sex. Island chain of perception,

out of which the road come, all descended from a common land.

See them here – eating crisps + drinking pop in armchair R – legs

open, yellow as a car”




“Lex gets knitting, a labyrinth of hidden colour brought out, pure

platonic thought thread tied to ideation of space, shared,

inflaming the eye, communal forms who touch. But found, just

joined to perception that builds, + sets over the base out which

5 walls climb. Beauty, fallen short of sound, directed on others

are made/blossom, now look – as it were wind/gravity/rain – to

radiate in her mind”




“Spider, poor emaciated creature, stilled in anger – father loves

him not, galled this middle brain, his compound eye, the things it

might have seen could it see the hairs of an angel’s arm.. would

they call a ransom to this mirror, its absorptive power, forbid any

tongue to speak of anything but a sign? I’ll find him where he lies

thus + in his ear holler ‘mirror’, spider. What. In his impoverished

home town”




“Had to write this down ‘cause I can’t draw a picture – ?of some

space body, like a spider, well, where would be the reason? A

vague symbol put to heaven, why? I can’t see properly, + it’d be

wrong, an innovation, to ascribe likeness over + above a cool

unfolding that dipped perception down to a certain point – +

then requested it extend its leg in faith. I record such matter

whenever I hear a horrible song”




“Roman Empire, it had a clear and good cognition – but how

sufficient was her look? It presented disproportionate along a

long human throat, wearing high, black jeweln. All major to the

story painted to the kids; overthrow the kings, = drive out into a

spider life awareness – a state, which to the eye is piercing,

bold. Rome, your dark queens, princesses created more than

just a fixed, unshakable neck”




“A146, thinking on redemption; thoughts follow me close, even to

the horizon. World’s full of all kinds of holy meat – thorns; there’s

7/11 of spiders, rabbits, beetles, other hounds – theirs mossy

limbs intertwined find in buckram green, these greying fields a

visceral hit of flesh lingering to ?dressing of their faces – can you

see their legs, their hands? Thinking about it, it’s a small loss + or

is it madness?”




“All my life, been on the side of the goodies – + now here I am in

this curry house: + now I’m in love with Beauty + the fine boned

spider is my monograph. I feel, I sense the great, shaking illness

these drawn, lovely creatures must go down to; enervation

penetrating every inch of their heart + tact – so much like

pipsqueaks.. expecting a poem to restore turning, useless limbs.

But ah, I forget the spec”




“Spiders have no heart – their hearts are made of wood. There is

no understanding of the pump, in a spider. So they use the

centre of their body like a filter, to find a music in ions, cells – but

are at a halt – this heart, being made of trees + must make do

as an old heraldic song*yet – in the mighty forests that fill our

society/still + do for a 1000 years – even before we think of

what to play, or where to live”




“Silver sky eaten up O animal fenced in little bars of iron rust lain

by for many long years in an utter sphere with your tired black

back, suns at the top – like a skirt, a glass vase, below it a

railway-line, a marsh then earth. Her melting corners, limbs float

up to flower you window out which you see the sun, bird below

it, said an organising spider – below, a steel track, most

conspicuously to be realised”




“0state1state chimeric man who lives down the block, + with his

family he go round Norfolk water like a swan. Suburb to suburb,

the citizens of the canal make like man islands with

neck/shoulders of other beasts, mammal derived, e.g. a bather

(great white thing) – to fuse their days but losing the ability to

make milk; it’s key to humanize a line that binds to a spider; to

cleanse/purify, to drive it out the inn”




“A 1000 who question filamentous green leaves, who come from

earth, are found in the institutes of the cell landscape – I care

for them that’s so covered in a greenery that stops at Norfolk’s

glabrous sea; there the modular exception of trees, cooling oak

plant finds its border + here native birds transmit construct..

such is a GABA ?Is any spider integral to this transduction of

bulbs, who source it + cycle”




“North Sea – blossoms in moments of social, economic collapse, so

we devote to it ideas of resurrection: made up, substitute

worlds. From our halls + stairways, the actual cars, furniture,

clothes – all that’s needed for a happy, successful life, gets

taken + secreted in the deep. We, who did this, carry a

profound residue of strangeness – as the water turns portraits

of kings into those of our rooms”




“Lion green, languid armed, North Sea / great outgasping of air

that sits on a 3 arched bridge it was said from yr Atlantic, spine /

huge gases clamour in shipping*lanes like thru the endothelium

of a marginal book; this unsound word made aspire / base thin,

of plumbed, hungry cells engraving in river ruined history,

poems / giants too in the dance. I’ll transport them all before

tomorrow, my breaths”



Doug Jones grew up in Romford, Essex. He studied English at Warwick University before starting nurse training at the beginning of the 1990s. After working as a nurse in the East End of London for around 15 years he did an MPhil on Bill Griffiths at Kings College, London. After that he did medical training. He has been attending the Writers Forum workshops in various forms for nearly 20 years, publishing one or two things in that time. In 2012 Veer books published Posts. Work has also appeared in  Veer Vier 4, Zone and scabsarerats magazines. A second Veer book is due out later this year. He is married with children and currently works as a junior doctor in Norfolk.


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