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Sharon Jones


Bristol, England, UK

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Sharon Jones

Somewhere in Spain, in southern Spain,
There is a house of brothers.
The king of Spain, the current king
Resides in this white house.
The wolf boy, smaller than the
King, gathers up the eggs,
Whilst the king, the taller king
Stretches out his legs.
The brothers work in factories
Until the sunny day, when
Northward bound, they are found
Receiving better pay.
The king and the wolf boy
Stay close in blood and mind,
They milk the smitten and
Girls from Britain then
Marry their own kind.
They lie and live in poverty,
Thinking they have won,
But with each gain there
Comes more pain and death
Has just begun.



Sharon Jones

I'm totally shocked.
You're dead and I'm half way through
Your biography.
I didn't believe Chris when he told me.
I thought he was joking but
I ran upstairs to watch the telly
And it was on every channel.
Di and Dodi Dead EXCLUSIVE.
Hunted down by the press in Paris.
No Eastenders today just endless vultures
Tearing up her carcass,
As per usual. Nothing changes does it.

I was your fan,
Before it was uncool to be so.
I cut out pictures
>From the tacky tabloids,
And pasted them in my scrapbooks.
Your wedding, your sons, your dresses,
Your ever changing hairstyles.
I had a clearout the other day,
And threw away the royal wedding
Commeroration coins.

I feel so sad
You shouldn't have died.
Another Evita, Grace Kelly
Marilyn Monroe.
What a wonder you were
I wonder.



Sharon Jones

Listening to Lloyd Cole,
I realise the absence
Of mitigating circumstances
Which cultivate our hearts.
Sheeted heat and aggravating
Annoyances disclose the
Real feels and air the

Mine fields, which blow up
In our faces.

Forficula Auricularia


Sharon Jones

Earywigs alone under stones,
Without fur, without feathers.
Upturn, turnover.
Skuttle away, crunch, crunch.
Crawl over my boot into my sock.
In between my moistened toes,
Nibble, nibble.