Doug Jones: Purgatory

from Posts


“In Purgatory, golf. All the human thinks/believes. golf. Oldman
plays the young man the old man emerges more Sunshine, Jehovah
– a supply boat on the field, full of poems, trinkets, sleeps. Father
having some bad day. The play is awful, course complex – all tasks
seem tanked.skewed. Then, there is this dream triple eagle. A
marvellous, turquoise idol. Father professes his delight. His game is


“Thought of Bill, in purgatory the other day. An assumption he
would hate. Were at the traveller’s camp with police, colleagues –
to get the Romany to have the jab. Politely, they said no. Why
always no? To a 2nd site, illegal, out back in hard Norfolk nature
mask, red – advancing on the polyester cast of our copper’s gear –
and charm. To show a new-born baby girl. Indescribable. On a
chain – is beads”


“Get the sentience of purgatory – unintelligible to the
contemporary, gaming man – who plays with no consequence, well
– Constance – cheats, we know them as – lies, in the compass of a
narrative from time, management, screen after screen, to go
quicker, bigger and through. Get then, to vast sections of reflected
light – realities, stored in a corn bodied saint of prayer. The
repository of food”


“Purgatory. Made indulgences like the Norfolk country, pick them
out of there, a flimsy thief, acne on yr apple cheeks, that’s the poor
boy with the look behind. A single penitent, in the empty field. With
only the trouble crows, hang with knives – seeing down to the
irons. It’s the money you pay when you get to the woods, to
breathe, to have the money again. The birds don’t talk – what do
they do”


“Soubrette’s stock character at purgatory. But you’d like her, she’s a
really funny soul. Clowned around with the angels as they sung, do
all the wrong notes as a joke. And had this routine, where – though
she was small, as she ascended the mountain, her posh dress would
split – more + more. Be all angles, skinny legs, sternly navigating
up. Gangling – vermillion. Ah, we fell about. We loved her so”


“You asleep, angel? flat on the bed of a dirty, neat room. As if she
were the model of it, that the staff might turn over as they move
through their shift – a purgatorial place; rated poor. Observe the
confluence of flesh, marriage – tops. Forgetting of a million people
rolls her quiet, coat submissive room. But she could not forget any
of it + the only way to face is out. 14 hours, lain under the plug”


“Happy day, leave purgatory + after there is only heaven. Peeps
close in on themselves, in their tongues, stories up, but not infinite,
for these are us last, walls, bank of purebrown rock + what it is to
be one + that Dam is changed – decaged, her word goes out as
water for good to the people, a unique thought. Exquisite source it
is the dam, our human cell. Song. All the languages we have left”


“Why is there an electrochemical gradient? we’ve done so many
things wrong + everyone we know is dead. asked the cop of
purgatory. What power reduced me from a cop to a good cop?
Into the cell charge, black proteinaceous serpents that devour at
evening H + ions + accrete the Hat in morning with sun, statues
deep move to the tree mitochondrio family – best sound O HANS
Krebs, you girl”


“Consider the nature of purgatory; a one-way conversation with
yourself between death + heaven. It’s the screw of the universe.
Again, into the animal cell, free of all material stuff. Narcissism
really, on the mountain. Bodies, mouths open as you talk, wistfully,
of crimes. Bodies, the metal they come in contact with, outside
us the building triggers we must see, crawls appointments, that are yr


“The thin client, still. The very long time of it – purgatory, longer than
the transpiration, procession, faces, turned up like leaves to the
central host to which runs water. The years one drop would take to
run up the human chest, without sound or a man inside it – no
weight at all – In the end there are just clouds – gradually accreting
nature, sea. Sims. The sims as sound over the vast constellation”



Doug Jones completed a MPhil in the poet Bill Griffiths. He has been writing poetry for several years and has books out with Veer and Salo presses. Work has also been published in various other places. He currently works as an NHS doctor.


Click here to go back to: Contributors and Links to Pages 1 – 4


From the Junction Box

Junction Box Categories

Glasfryn Project

+44(0)1873 810456 | LYN@GLASFRYNPROJECT.ORG.UK