My name is Jon Edwards and I am an eighteen-year-old who enjoys writing short poems. I live in a small town called Wigan, which is in Lancashire, England. At the moment I am working part time for a security company which is owned by my father. I hope to continue writing both poetry and short stories.




20th Century Evolution

If our time is now what was it then?
With our impregnated fears of what may happen again.
With streams of fire no safe place to dwell,
We turn our attentions to the taming of hell.

We swap our rags for white coats,
And sacrificial fetuses for goats.
We replace taste with expense,
And favor textbooks for common sense.

With an evolutionary distrust of all things that cannot rust,
We live life through a screen and confuse time with trust.


Copyright 1999 by Jon Edwards




A minute of madness

A minute of madness,
An hour of pain,
A second of darkness,
A lifetime of pain.

My hand took the action,
My mind took the blame,
As you lay there bleeding,
I felt the same.

I found a scapegoat in modern day stress,
You took your own life to untangle the mess.
I considered the roads and chose my new path,
The warm claret comfort,
The newly tainted bath.

As my life slipped away,
I felt free of our strain,
My last minute of madness,
My last second of pain,
My new lifetime darkness,
My fifteen minutes of fame.


Copyright 1999 by Jon Edwards




Approaching the Terrible Trues

Raising false hopes to the droves of the damned,
And as miracles are perfected they become second hand.
Underground bunkers lay home to what we have found,
As potential lays gagged and bound.

Once androgynous equipment lays awake in the fear,
As the advance in equipment becomes the incubus of later years.
The glass insemination, the child of chosen face,
The reinvention of god, the new Aryan race.

Asexual creatures, a lycanthrope boon,
Science fades fast in conjunction to the moon.

And as Mother Nature lays raped,
And the earth's vagina bleeds,
We realize our sins and replace cancerous seeds.


Copyright 1999 by Jon Edwards




The Broken Mans Friend

The pain in my head was my chance to break free,
Whilst the broken mans friend had fallen for me.
The warmth of his touch,
The familiarity of his voice,
The penetrative stare made him a need not a choice.

I wanted life but he wanted monogamy.
I wanted support but not what he offered me.
I tried and I failed.
The glass crucifix to which I was nailed.

The alcohol sheen to hide my face,
My alibi for last nights disgrace.
You tried and you failed,
The glass stake of which I impaled.

But now my friend sits alone,
Banished from my fears,
Dehydrated smile and staggering tears,
For I have slept in a corpse for a number of years.


Copyright 1999 by Jon Edwards




Oh what a night

The clock serves its purpose the night slips away,
Carrying cheap gift-wrapped promises on such a false day,
Our idolized earth folk begin their jobs to entertain,
And their mannequin handshakes grab the headlines again.

With their financial fat to the arteries of the earth,
From the comfort of their homes they give reality a wide berth,
With their champagne placebos and implanted thoughts,
The purity of the water burns them back to their warts.

When life gets too easy they add obstacles to the track,
But still with their power there's no turning back.
With their needles of freedom and their vales of youth,
They add fuel to the fire, writing fiction of the truth.

But all us plebeians do is steal, kill and bitch,
I grows clear to me the millennium welcomes the rich.


Copyright 1999 by Jon Edwards




Visiting Hours Over

From the darkness to the light the metal frame that does crowd,
From the darkness to the light the clean air full of death,

A spiral of thoughts that at night time does come,
Separated from the day by a loss of support,
The metal frame eases grip and my time is once again.

The pale of the moon on the slight naked frame,
Escape from the expectance and the unconscious shame.
Everyday steps rinse the heart of its pain,
And the virgin night opens eyes once so purposeful.

The whispers have gone,
The metal frame weak,
The future is mine,
The past looks so bleak.

But as the sun begs to rise,
And the metal frame pulls,
The penetrated night falls foul of the dream.
The support returns with the spiral decline.

From the light to the darkness the metal frame that does envelop,
From the light to the darkness the dirty air full of life,


Copyright 1999 by Jon Edwards



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