Life by Remote Control

Ensconced  in  the  images.

Injections from the 40 inch

frame    across   the   room.


Bourgeois buttocks comfortable

on a lounge cut from old growth

forest by third world underaged.


Watch the news for sports updates,

interspersed with messages of the

latest products, requirements for a

new and improved reduced fat life.

Abject images are quickly flicked.


Reality TV is an oxy   moron.

Published in Popshot, Issue 4, September 2010

A revision in The Frequency of God, Close-Up Books, December 2017

Poem by Mark William Jackson, Illustration ©2010 David Lemm

Beat(en) & Saintly

it was wednesday

& the wagtail blues

& bebop doos

fell like porcelain

from an angel’s wings


hipster crooners

who clung to rags

like oxygen needles

danced on glass feet

stomping at the gin bar

& smoking leaves

of fortitude stripped

from a sandbox of lies


we waited for a taxi

while the moon bled jazz

over the new york sidewalk

insects laughed

at the show

mingling with saxophones

of stone

& now?


do you do do the new move

cloaked in ageless slipstreams

in the rat tat of hep cat culture

does your coffee pour whiskey

into your mind’s cool blue fixtures

when your pen punctures pages

& when will you rest?


& is this a test?


historic light unsheathed

like a blade

to cut your arms

spill the blood

of fathers

like your blood

will be spilled by your sons

& what of your sons

do they float in spoons

in precious powder

crushed from the dragon’s bone

the flame licks the steel

orange blue lights appeal

flick flickering images

in rolled eyes of

tangelo tint


when the spike pushes in

what does it take out?


Published in The Diamond & the Thief (Black Rider Press), September 2010

Published in The Frequency of God, Close-Up Books, December 2017

An audio recording of this poem (with The Minordian) can be found here…


Hell’s Band

Tom Waits’ bleeding knuckles

painting the piano keys.

Keith Richard’s slits a finger

sliding over the Devil’s symphony.


Bukowski stands at the mic

calling everyone up to fight.

The MC dressed in leather

promises one hell of a night.


On drums Keith Moon is vomiting

while John Bonham waits his turn,

through trumpet Miles is jonesing,

waiting for his shit to burn.


Demon Beasts of Bourbon

piss elixir into your throat,

the barman spews toxic venom

through the wicked teeth of a goat.


The bar room’s fucked up crowded,

the bar maids are filthy mean,

but give me a smokin’ dirt house

to any sterile ku klux clean.


Published on Verity La., July 2010