Strider Marcus Jones's Blog: https://stridermarcusjonespoetry.wordpress.com/

https://www.creativeprocess.info/cardona3/strider-marcus-jones

Calculus

By Strider Marcus Jones

Darwin can’t explain the missing link,
and science, did not invent the goal
of faith in how we think-
but Newton keeps us
sane to find the whole
gravity and reason for our role-
in calculus.

science beyond ours does exist,
in un-deciphered hieroglyphs
and alchemies of metals
malleable like petals
on spaceships
crashed in Roswell, gone
to Area 51.

like Dedalus, who prayed too good
through Dublin’s streets
of saints and sinners,
while whores exchanged their treats
for cash, from winners and beginners-
i walked towards the priesthood,
but woke up wet with wood.

i realised, Carlisle was right in saying:
no lie can live forever-
that the Gods we make together 
praying-
don’t care or intervene
in human fate and actions-
so Spinoza’s God is seen,

in the orderly reactions
of the universe-
creating life, and waiting hearse-
but metaphors of doubt persist
on the road to Armageddon,
for if physics shapes all of this-
what shapes these cloths of heaven?

Previously published in Issue Three of The Candid Review, 2024.

The Importance of Arts, Culture & The Creative Process

The civilised world faces a stark choice between surrendering our human rights and freedoms to plutocrats like Putin and Trump with their billionaire technocrats like Musk, reducing us all to serfdom under global surveillance by Artificial Intelligence or, we can help to create a new renaissance in the Arts, Culture and The Creative Process embracing all cultures and social backgrounds to inspire inclusive creativity, social justice and empathy in the humanities as a counter balance against social exclusion and political extremism. This project is fundamental in inspiring and steering this process but it must support and encourage those from poorer social backgrounds.

What was the inspiration for your creative work?

I am one of those kids who grew up in poverty but never gave up due to inspiration from my teachers and parents.

Tell us something about the natural world that you love and don’t wish to lose. What are your thoughts on the kind of world we are leaving for the next generation? Forests, mountains, coastal waters, the desert, all animals, birdsong, summer rain and snow. Climate change is real. It is happening now and unless we all admit it and start behaving more responsibly to help alleviate its cataclysmic destruction the next generation will be reduced to living in a Mad Max world- until the nuclear power stations go into meltdown.

Photo credit: Strider Marcus JonesStrider Marcus Jones – is a poet, law graduate and former civil servant from Salford, England with proud Celtic roots in Ireland and Wales. He is the editor and publisher of Lothlorien Poetry Journal https://lothlorienpoetryjournal.blogspot.com/. A member of The Poetry Society with multiple Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominations, his five published books of poetry https://stridermarcusjonespoetry.wordpress.com/ reveal a maverick, moving between cities, playing his saxophone in smoky rooms.

Strider Marcus Jones

OPA Year Book 2025Poetry For JusticeStrider Marcus Jones

January 27, 2025 opainternationalLeave a comment

Lothlorien

i’m come home again
in your Lothlorien
to marinate my mind
in your words,
and stand behind
good tribes grown blind,
trapped in old absurd
regressive reasons
and selfish treasons.

in this cast of strife
the Tree of Life
embraces innocent ghosts,
slain by Sauron’s hosts
and their falling cries
make us wise
enough to rise
up in a fellowship of friends
to oppose Mordor’s ends
and smote this evil stronger
and longer
for each one of us that dies.

i’m come home again
in your Lothlorien,
persuading
yellow snapdragons
to take wing
and un-fang serpent krakens,
while i bring
all the races
to resume
their bloom
as equals in equal spaces
by removing
and muting
the chorus of crickets
who cheat them from chambered thickets,
hiding corruptions older than long grass
that still fag for favours asked.

i’m come home again
in your Lothlorien
where corporate warfare
and workfare
on health
and welfare
infests our tribal bodies
and separate self
in political lobbies
so conscience can’t care
or share
worth and wealth:

to rally drones
of walking bones,
too tired
and uninspired
to think things through
and the powerless who see it true.
red unites, blue divides,
which one are you
and what will you do
when reason decides.

Strider Marcus Jones  – is a poet, law graduate and former civil servant from Salford, England with proud Celtic roots in Ireland and Wales. He is the editor and publisher of Lothlorien Poetry Journal A member of The Poetry Society, and nominated for both the Pushcart Prize x3 and Best of the Net x3, his five published books of poetry reveal a maverick, moving between cities, playing his saxophone in smoky rooms.

https://www.bloodhoneylit.com/poetry/smj-five-poems

Poetry

by Strider Marcus Jones

MY OLD SOCKS

my old socks

sheath the feet

that fill my boots

to walk on land.

hard hands, sweating like peat,

still break rocks

in imprisoned heat

born trapped roots

in dynasties of the damned.

the faded thread-

diminishes in duty until dead

while famous patterns

conceal what really happens-

their reasons behind closed doors

gain ignorant applause

for wars

and poverty

rising from floors

of serial

imperial

cruel pomposity.

 

THOSE LEAVES ON THE PAVEMENT

from bud to life to death

membranes of breath

rustle

and hustle

for water and wind

in self similarity

without clarity

doing the wrong thing.

each tree, is its own fate

landing in landscape

rooted in class

morphing into towers of steel and glass-

those leaves on the pavement

rejected with resentment

turning brown

no history written down.

some of those leaves

are people we know-

but who perceives

why we let them go,

after mistakes

into what waits

with nothing to show

when time shakes.

 

I WANT WHAT ORDINARY OTHERS WANT

i want

what others want-

synchronicity

and simplicity

in life of free will-

sharing some land

i can work with my hands

no more slave still-

time trapped.

lines tapped.

steps tagged.

voice gagged.

this elite mafia

of Orwell and Kafka

has built Metropolis

on old Acropolis-

reducing proles

to zombie roles

in constitutions

of constructed evolutions,

with blood to dust faiths

riding like dark wraiths

bullets shredding

bombing and beheading

the innocents

and dissidents

to steal their lot

and not share what you’ve got.

 

HOPPER’S LADIES

you stay and grow

more mysterioso

but familiar

in my interior-

with voices peeled

full of field

of fruiting orange trees

fertile to orchard breeze

soaked in summer rains

so each refrain all remains.

not afraid of contrast,

closed and opened in the past

and present, this isolation of Hopper’s ladies,

sat, thinking in and out of ifs and maybes

in a diner, reading on a chair or bed

knowing what wants to be said

to someone

who is coming or gone-

such subsidence

into silence

is a unilateral curve

of moments

and movements

that swerve

a straight lifetime

to independence

in dependence

touching sublime

rich roots

then ripe fruits.

we share their flesh and flutes

in ribosomes and delicious shoots

that release love-

no, not just the fingered glove

to wear

and curl up with in a chair,

but lovingkindness

cloaked in timeless

density and tone

in settled loam-

beyond lonely apartments in skyscrapers

and empty newspapers,

or small town life

gutting you with a gossips knife.

THE TWO SALTIMBANQUES (After Picasso’s painting)

when words don’t come easy

they make do with silence

and find something in nothing

to say to each other

when the absinthe runs out.

his glass and ego

are bigger than hers,

his elbows sharper,

stabbing into the table

and the chambers of her heart

cobalt clown

without a smile.

she looks away

with his misery behind her eyes

and sadness on her lips,

back into her curves

and the orange grove

summer of her dress

worn and blown by sepia time

where she painted

her cockus giganticus

lying down

naked

for her brush and skin,

mingling intimate scents

undoing and doing each other.

for some of us,

living back then

is more going forward

than living in now

and sitting here-

at this table,

with these glasses

standing empty of absinthe,

faces wanting hands

to be a bridge of words

and equal peace

as Guernica approaches.

Photo of Strider Marcus Jones

BIO: Strider Marcus Jones – is a poet, law graduate and former civil servant from Salford, England with proud Celtic roots in Ireland and Wales. He is the editor and publisher of Lothlorien Poetry Journal  https://lothlorienpoetryjournal.blogspot.com/. A member of The Poetry Society, his five published books of poetry  https://stridermarcusjonespoetry.wordpress.com/ reveal a maverick, moving between cities, playing his saxophone in smoky rooms. His poetry has been published in numerous publications including: Poppy Road Review; The Galway Review;  The Huffington Post USA; The Stray Branch Literary Magazine; Crack The Spine Literary Magazine; The Lampeter Review; Panoplyzine  Poetry Magazine and Dissident Voice.

https://www.ultramarinereview.com/post/two-poems-by-strider-marcus-jones

Two Poems by Strider Marcus Jones



I Follow You Into Night


i sense you in summer wind

and try to redefine the Other ring

that binds us

in this tormenting

show of come and go

that minds us.


in the sentence of a sound

i hear your pain

then turn its fate around

to break the blame

mending happenings

and broken strings.


footfalls confide

in shadows that duet in our divide

on a bridge where dark persuasions swallow light

i follow you into night

through corridors uncurtained dreams

in tapestries and surreal scenes.


that corrugated face of time

marks motions set to mime-

on the balcony of fate he leant

where rites and runes evoked her scent-

to hear the music in her ways

smile and quicken upon his gaze.



Music on a Faded Page


voice of the sea

warm calm

sweet balm

scents my senses be.


fury full of storm

rhythm slow to rage

music on a faded page

of tattooed flesh reborn.


my muse of melody

shapeshifts in symbols strange

on this quixotic range

inside and out of me-


is colourless like wind

invisible, but here and heard

threading light and darkness through a word

to give its note new meaning.

Strider Marcus Jones – is a poet, law graduate and former civil servant from Salford, England with proud Celtic roots in Ireland and Wales. He is the editor and publisher of Lothlorien Poetry Journal 

https://lothlorienpoetryjournal.blogspot.com/.

A member of The Poetry Society, nominated for the Pushcart Prize x3 and Best of the Net x3, his five published books of poetry  https://stridermarcusjonespoetry.wordpress.com/ reveal a maverick, moving between cities, playing his saxophone in smoky rooms.  

“PYRAMID PRISON” by Strider Marcus Jones

MasticadoresUSA, poem, poetry, Treasured Contributors

“PYRAMID PRISON” by Strider Marcus Jones

Posted by Meelosmomon18 July, 2025

Photo by Alan Cabello on Pexels.comin detritus metronomes
of human habitation
the ghost of Shelley's imagination
questions the elemental,
experimental
chromosomes
and ribosomes
of DNA,
reverse engineered
that suddenly appeared
as evolution yesterday.
 
her monster mirrors dark wells
of monsters in our smart selves,
the lost humanity and oratory
that fills laboratory
test tubes
with fused
imbued
genes
to dreams
of flat forward faster
distinction
to disaster
and barbarism's
ectopic extinction.
 
this is our pyramid prison,
where all souls
and proles
climb the debased
opposite steps of extremism,
like Prometheus Unbound,
defaced
sitting around
the crouching sphinx
abandoned by missing links.
 
free masons of money and wars,
warp the alter of natural laws,
so reason withers
and wastelands rust-
no longer rivers
of shared stardust
 
in the equal symphony of spheres
in space,
filling our ears
with subwoofer bass,
definitive
primitive
medieval
evil
waste.

Copyright © 2025 Strider Marcus Jones
All Rights Reserved

Strider Marcus Jones is a poet, law graduate and former civil servant from Salford, England with proud Celtic roots in Ireland and Wales. He is the editor and publisher of Lothlorien Poetry Journal A member of The Poetry Society, his five published books of poetry reveal a maverick, moving between cities, playing his saxophone in smoky rooms.

His poetry has been published in over 200 publications worldwide including: Dreich Magazine; dyst Literary Journal; Impspired Magazine; Melbourne Culture Corner; Literary Yard Journal; The Galway Review; Cajun Mutt Press; Rye Whiskey Review; The Huffington Post USA; The Stray Branch Literary Magazine; Crack The Spine Literary Magazine; and Dissident Voice.

https://www.europeanpoetry.com/2025/07/poetry-by-strider-marcus-jones-british.html

Poetry By Strider Marcus Jones ।British poet

THE TWO SALTIMBANQUES


when words don't come easy
they make do with silence
and find something in nothing
to say to each other
when the absinthe runs out.

his glass and ego
are bigger than hers,
his elbows sharper,
stabbing into the table
and the chambers of her heart
cobalt clown
without a smile.

she looks away
with his misery behind her eyes
and sadness on her lips,
back into her curves
and the orange grove
summer of her dress
worn and blown by sepia time

where she painted
her cockus giganticus
lying down
naked
for her brush and skin,
mingling intimate scents
undoing and doing each other.

for some of us,
living back then
is more going forward
than living in now
and sitting here-

at this table,
with these glasses
standing empty of absinthe,
faces wanting hands
to be a bridge of words
and equal peace
as Guernica approaches.



HOT ROD


fast and furious
archangel in paint and chrome
brings me home-
purring megaphonious,
combusting with sav and sap
that i glimpse
peeking into warm grill chintz-
then she lifts her corset bonnet
and lets me touch her glinting bones
secreting home spun
pheromones
attracting, like moon and sun-
mysterious
and mnemonic
old senses,
fallow and fenced
soon become drenched
quiller and squirter
in that linguistic converter-
glow mapping,
overlapping,
slowly blown
in the metronome.



POMEGRANATE FLESH


ask those
who grow old-
some fruits are nicer
when they're riper.
you don't stop
the clock
on the one who chose
you to hold-
her pomegranate
is still your sonnet
of sepia feelings and flesh,
sensuously sweet and fresh.

although the mirror never lies,
it shows the beauty that lives
as it dies
and gives
it's own reflection
of your perfection
to me
then and now,
each memory
taken
by the lenses
somehow,
preserved
by your words
and curves
in my senses.

our dance,
that thrilled
in it's intricate
tango on the floor,
is still filled
with time intimate
romance
and more-
talking rubicon of reason,
in layer, upon layer of season
so sedimentary
since you entered me-
and i consumed
your silky mesh
of pink perfumed
pomegranate flesh



TRAPPED IN MANUFACTURED TIME


so lost schooled-
but not a fool,
stands in cold sunshine
on golden heath
where no kings rule
and ancestors of cottons thief,
make poor ends meet for dirty dime-
trapped in manufactured time.
he sits
and fits
in the shadows of its shades
and lines
on Cribden hill-
where clouds spill
like wire brillowed blinds,
imagining a wintered witch
composing pagan spells and rhymes
with bones like martyred blades,
whose burned marrow curses
industrialists and tokened slaves-
to believe a full purse is
how life measures made.
the trees are gone,
and wandering tribes,
who worked and gathered everything as one-
now live down in gas warmed hives,
in settled serfdom's
truths and lies.

https://www.waldenspoetryandreviews.com/blog-3-1/featured-poet-strider-marcus-jones

Featured Poet Strider Marcus Jones

Jul 16, 2925

Good afternoon! I’m thrilled to have Strider Marcus Jones as my featured poet for today, he is an incredible poet I’m honoured to have included among my features. Check out some of his poetry, below!


ELSEWHERE, IN ANOTHER PLACE

There's an evening coming in,
Like wet towels
With heavy jowls,
To snoop, and listen in.

Walking under it,
Intimate in touch and face;
Our mood moves with it,
But is elsewhere, in another place.

Thoughts cascade like rainbows,
As words said, reach the sky;
Love touches love, and knows-
Sometimes, there is no why.

Beyond this moment, who can say-
What is meant to be:
In the hot rain, boughs beckon and sway-
Uncontrollably.



SEPARATE PIECES

follow me
down the fathoms
of forgiveness
like ghosts
who heal and hope-
to that room
in the mind
where contentment
resonates
with longing
for love to fill
its vacant chair
and mould it to us both.

i can't go on
like separate pieces,
that move around each other
but never touch
in their courtship
on the board-
and yet,
so many things
you say and do,
won't go away
and fill me still,
with points of possibility
as the Great Wheel of Time
revolves
in harmony and confusion.

unconscious moments,
call out
to chance and circumstance
and weave away in dreams-
orchestrating
opening gambits,
to suture sensual seams.
two hands touch
and influence fate
as they move around the squares;
time curves,
then unmeasures words-
and their endless game goes on.



SO IT GOES

when i look back
in a moment
of quiet acquired dignity
that comes to some
with age,
it is with patience,
for i was much the same
when everything seemed bigger
than it was
as uncertainty
wore the other shoe to confidence
and followed it step for step.

the energy of youth
that often acts
without respect and understanding-
to bluff and blag its way
in fashion and musical rebellion-
skips like stones
on the ponds of those who have it all
from Parliaments revolution-
but their ripples wane
through treacled trends
in this dumbed down democracy
soothed by drugs and drink.

apathy watches and laughs
at these new roundheads and royals-
jigging their booty
to tunes composed
by capitalist cavaliers-
wearing each despotic Emperor's new clothes,
and a known assassins kiss of death
waits for anyone who questions-

so it goes.



VELVET TANGERINE

i was drinking tea with Dali
in an underworld cafe,
arguing down his table
on General Franco's hand-
when The Persistence Of Memory
that melts my pocket watch
made time less rigid-
so i fell with names and numbers
into old obsidian dreams-
where your long legs pointed
from six to twelve,
then nine to three
when you bent them-
for me to play and pleasure
each exotic segment
of your velvet tangerine.
Dali left the table
to meet Picasso in Paris,
while my benzedrine mind replaced-
the soft and spent infinity of your face.



DOUBTS AND DEMONS



We all have doubts and demons

About ourselves and life;

But overcome their reasons

And love will conquer strife.

We all want perfections hum,

In a real and abstract way;

But our flaws make us human

And their judgment turns us grey.

Yet, to love and be loved in kind,

Transcends this clouded plain,

And calms chaos in the mind

To co-exist, or wane.

Strider Marcus Jones – is a poet, law graduate and former civil servant from Salford, England with proud Celtic roots in Ireland and Wales. He is the editor and publisher of Lothlorien Poetry Journal https://lothlorienpoetryjournal.blogs.... A member of The Poetry Society, nominated for the Pushcart Prize x3 and Best of the Net x3, his five published books of poetry https://stridermarcusjonespoetry.word... reveal a maverick, moving between cities, playing his saxophone in smoky rooms.

LOTHLORIEN

i’m come home again

in your Lothlorien

to marinate my mind

in your words,

and stand behind

good tribes grown blind,

trapped in old absurd

regressive reasons

and selfish treasons.

in this cast of strife

the Tree of Life

embraces innocent ghosts,

slain by Sauron’s hosts

and their falling cries

make us wise

enough to rise

up in a fellowship of friends

to oppose Mordor’s ends

and smote this evil stronger

and longer

for each one of us that dies.

i’m come home again

in your Lothlorien,

persuading

yellow snapdragons

to take wing

and un-fang serpent krakens,

while i bring

all the races

to resume

their bloom

as equals in equal spaces

by removing

and muting

the chorus of crickets

who cheat them from chambered thickets,

hiding corruptions older than long grass

that still fag for favours asked.

i’m come home again

in your Lothlorien

where corporate warfare

and workfare

on health

and welfare

infests our tribal bodies

and separate self

in political lobbies

so conscience can’t care

or share

worth and wealth:

to rally drones

of walking bones,

too tired

and uninspired

to think things through

and the powerless who see it true.

red unites, blue divides,

which one are you

and what will you do

when reason decides.

Strider Marcus Jones – is a poet, law graduate and former civil servant from Salford, England with proud Celtic roots in Ireland and Wales. He is the editor and publisher of Lothlorien Poetry Journal https://lothlorienpoetryjournal.blogspot.com/. A member of The Poetry Society, and nominated for both the Pushcart Prize x3 and Best of the Net x3, his five published books of poetry  https://stridermarcusjonespoetry.wordpress.com/ reveal a maverick, moving between cities, playing his saxophone in smoky rooms.

https://100subtextsmagazine.blogspot.com/

MIRROR, MIRROR

mirror, mirror,
in the hall
age comes to us all,
and looks wither
through the play
of years slipped away,
away
in the lapsed lingo of street
and road,
where tangents meet
and move with innocence
up summits of experience
told,
whose fruits we eat
then weep
when they implode.
these reflections
in this autumn of adventurous directions,
mean more
standing in the door
of ebb and flow
watching people come and go
wearing introspections
of what they know
after listening to a stranger's small confessions
on midnight radio.



THE LATITUDE OF LOVE

the latitude of love
paddles an imperial pedalo
in someone's waters-
and i had to go
native in a foreign land
to understand
where my own backward blood
has brought us.
in the mosque
in the mihrab
in Cordoba,
no one is lost
as Christian and Arab
respect how they cross over.
inside:
the scallop shell,
with its white marble hood
and cathedral bell
above ancient wood,
keeps everyone equal and safe from hell-
but outside:
other forces blow the people and their pedalo.



THE OTHER SELF

the other self
abstracted in the press
of turned down pages,
gets mucked up in the mess
and shows how unlaminated age is.
if nothing else-
these nude notes
being played behind the curtain
where the stage is,
by soloist strings
and hermit woodwinds-
are far hopes
of uncertain
opening chords
calling out
to the duet
i haven't come to yet.
and afterwards,
if all those afterwards
could talk and kiss and spout,
there would be
no more misery
move it out.



THE PATTERNS

somewhere
in everywhere
everybody
happens
in the patterns,
like flocks
of rocks
gathered to the lobby
of Saturn's
rings,
graded
and sorted
into ugly and beautiful
useful
things;
all something
out of nothing
but not absolute nothing:
it seems matter
that Mad Hatter
and plectrums of light
make tunes of self similarity settle and fight
repeating this same existence
without remembered resistance.



THE SUN DRIPS DOWN

i don't feel like a stranger
in your ease
as i come to know
your fast and slow
above, below
waves and seas
roving like a ranger.
a draft through the floor
moves the closed to door,
spills wax, wafts candle light,
and in music more slight
behind words said
becomes a squeezed breeze-
that warms in and out
where all love's doubt
left and fled.
as the shades of strings we shed,
uncoil and leave our head,
the sun drips down
ultraviolet turning brown
the sated flesh,
whose oliveness
soon condenses,
freeing long suppressed senses
to understand each other's expectation
knowing love is more than our creation.



THIS NOW MY THOUGHTS

this now my thoughts
open at the image of your name
won't be revealing
the secrets they explain-
do you do the same
on these out walks
remembering the rain
drop fractals on us feeling.
back we go again,
without preachers
or bad teachers,
harvest high with hope
just us and frayed strands
of poetry and bands
on this bridge of notes
our mind spans.
in give we've got
the bloom of this plot
in garden to river
shaping start and stop
the melting clock
of body quake then quiver
through the Dreamtime day night
and soul spirit lit by landscape light.

we climb the Orange Rock
to revert back far
but have no Gaelic croft
to live in who we are.
it has changed hands
until the purpose of these lands
shoots dissenting music out of birds
and sucks all truth from ancient words
so existence is
another language.


Strider Marcus Jones

Strider Marcus Jones – is a poet, law graduate and former civil
servant from Salford, England with proud Celtic roots in Ireland
and Wales. He is the editor and publisher of Lothlorien Poetry
Journal https://lothlorienpoetryjournal.blogs.... A member
of The Poetry Society, and nominated for both the Pushcart
Prize x3 and Best of the Net x3, his five published books of
poetry https://stridermarcusjonespoetry.word... reveal
a maverick, moving between cities, playing his saxophone in
smoky rooms.
His poetry has been published in numerous publications
including: The Huffington Post USA; The Stray Branch Literary
Magazine; Crack The Spine Literary Magazine; The Recusant,
The Lampeter Review and Dissident
Voice.

The Mess of Thrown Off Clothes

June 24, 2025

The Mess of Thrown Off Clothes

Strider Marcus Jones

i listen
to your love beads glisten
in the flotsam
of my room-
 
we make them
from samurai sword folds
at forge and loom
in the mess of thrown off clothes.
 
so many smoke me kisses
at portal doors,
and mithril wishes
on primitive floors-
 
take us back again
through heath and fen
to imitate
lost landscape-
 
cycle
and circle
sky and stone
outside and home-
 
in love in less
with your heavenliness,
and loneliness
durable under duress.

Strider Marcus Jones is a poet, law graduate, and former civil servant from Salford, England with proud Celtic roots in Ireland and Wales. He is the editor and publisher of Lothlorien Poetry Journal (lothlorienpoetryjournal.blogspot.com). A member of The Poetry Society, nominated for the Pushcart Prize x3 and Best of the Net x3, his five published books of poetry (stridermarcusjonespoetry.wordpress.com) reveal a maverick, moving between cities, playing his saxophone in smoky rooms. His poetry has been published in numerous publications including Poppy Road Review, The Galway Review, The Huffington Post USA, The Stray Branch Literary Magazine, Crack The Spine Literary Magazine, The Lampeter Review, Panoplyzine Poetry Magazine, and Dissident Voice.

This poem appeared in Record of Dissent: Poems of Protest in an Authoritarian Age — Summer 2025, published by The Chaos Section Poetry Project. We’ll be featuring each poem from the collection individually in the weeks ahead. You can read the full collection or download a free PDF of the chapbook here.