Saturday, 23 October 2010

EXCLUSIVE: Jones wins money, buys chair, wipes arse

I like money, I do. It pays for my various addictions. And whores will have their trinkets. So it was nice to find out that The Writer's Bureau wanted to give me some pennies for winning 3rd place in their poetry competition. I have since spent them on a chair, berry vodka and arse paper because I'm that damn exciting.

The poem is below, and this in-depth analysis was made of it: "This is highly original, beautifully crafted and resonant."

Crossing Over

Remember how we crossed the bay
in that little wreck we found,
five-past-midnight, after drinking
on the shingle? We rowed
to the lighthouse you said was haunted.

I forget how long it took,
what we said or didn't say.
The fear of opening a graveyard
had shrunk or evaded me

but I kept the bruises from when you fingered
my arm like a crucifix
when we headed upstairs. Everything
was silhouette
as we watched the hillsides sleep on the horizon.

Remind me: did we try to relight
the dead and search the ocean?
Did we name the shades of darkness
because of our intoxication?

We drew particles of the night into our lungs
and spirits made it through.
You switched on your torch and rotated
so that somewhere,
between worlds, we’d shine our beacons.

Russell Jones

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