blackmail press 29
Scott Alexander Jones
New Zealand

In Your Enigma - Ilinca Höpfner
In Your Enigma - Ilinca Höpfner
Scott Alexander Jones is the author of a collection of poems: “One Day There Will Be Nothing to Show That We Were Ever Here” (Bedouin Books, 2009). He completed his MFA at The University of Montana and was Writer-in-Residence at The Montana Artists Refuge during October of 2009.

He is co-founder of Zero Ducats, a literary journal comprised entirely of stolen materials, and releases music under the moniker Surgery in the Attic.

He currently lives in Wellington, New Zealand.
from “elsewhere”

And if I am sleeping thru the lullabies of a summer

storm, you are screaming

an arsenal of auburn

cellos into hiding—

Your lipstick desperately flamingo.

Soundlessly agape as Civil War daguerreotypes.

We have arrived

at the scene of the film where the first bullets hail down—

All sound cuts out—

Your larynx

banished brailleward

by explosions in the sky.

Toward the more taciturn outskirts of:

anywhere but here—

The nowheres

we/ll no longer witness together—

Scouring burnt lexicons in search of the perfect word for:

murmurs of wind

caught in a vacant stairwell—

from “elsewhere”

There are words

like: heartwood, petrichor

for lumber resistant to decay—

For the fragrance of rainfall on dry earth—

Their patents pending

as medicine for hummingbirds

to resemble a pageantry of elaborately feathered insects

rather than spies

transmitting the twitches of fractured lips

to the flapper girls dancing

the Charleston

just outside the veiled electricity

of my peripheral vision.

from “elsewhere”

There isn/t a word for

the distant moan

of Bozeman locomotives—

Soft caterpillars of the vacant night—

And I refuse to evoke sousaphones trapped in Nerja Caverns—

The way my army of

mascara skeletons

will be more dead tomorrow than they are today—

How apoptosis

means: programmed cell death

means: the moment our eyes first adjust to florescence

something inside us

conspires against us.

Yet we don/t exactly wilt like lettuce left

outside summer mausoleums—

from “elsewhere”

Sprinklers have been planted between caskets we call


so rapture, rush

hour traffic or massive plague

won/t prevent the daily watering of the dead—


courtesy of percolation

as interpreted by the cerebral cortex:

Still squinting on bended knee in the cannabis garden—

Or nakedly losing at poker in a Russian submarine—

Oceanward as the undertow

that took her away

& by her I mean, ultimately:

All freckled girls who one day won/t breathe

pollen nor premonitions

of midsummer rain

on freshly paved blacktop—

from “elsewhere”

Here, lawnmower blades latticework as DNA

rust dull in brushwood—

Crabgrass uproots one wayward gravestone three infants share



assuming room temperature

just shy of translating screams into speech—

Fruitless centenarians of this day in late July

equally unalive

as the Siamese twins

named: Aven & Trillion

we parted ways before making—

Who came gently in a dream where nobody chases you

darkward thru sewerways

& all your teeth remain intact—