Paul Steffan Jones 1st


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Low lie Land

By: Paul Steffan Jones AKA
Posted in: Poetry

Knut Madsen

bad lip cop

dressed his bride

in a brick wedding dress

thinks he recognises

people he used to know

in how total strangers look

in far-removed locations

lip bad cop

black electric vehicle

hybrid hymen hymnal

chasing all the flies around

the effluent that attracts them

sticky on his wheels

round and around

still can't shake off

those pony tricks

and scrotum athletics

in an inner sanctum

in a jam

an electric eel

gets an electricity bill

wrongly addressed

bin credit rating

predicts no future

cop bad lip

what's for dinner?

breaking out of his language

he had some predecessors

called Gullick?

wondered if they were still around

with no notes to compare

that's the trouble with the past

it's just too long ago to remember

he sees from his banking app

that she's been to


looks like a stretched-out German word

maybe it is just like those on old tanks

and the fuselages of the first jet fighters

maybe it’s a German company

like some supermarkets and train operators

restless in a virtual kilt

he waits for her to come home

the day is gone spent on futility

but they’re getting shorter

so not to worry

he’s just heard Anton von Pilferer

on the radio

best place for him

volume control


variable reception

in different rooms

keep moving to receive/lose

the signal

the tension of everyday life

of having to perform each nanosecond

stripes his back

he's Madsen

a mad son

under a mad sun

lip balm too late

copped bad

an accident of an archive

updated by apathy

and nugatory tinkling

by the powerless servants

of the Central Power

he’s a contemptible person

in a county of his country

he’s a knut

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