Dystopia – Day 7

Currency

Dance around the tree
and stuff your pockets
poking holes through seams
with prickly

hope.

Mom tells her never to
say where she’s foraged / fills
her pail with nuts in spiny shells

cracked by gravity
ready for fire.

Home she dumps the hoard
under floorboards filling a midden poised
for liquidation in case of

urgency.

Limp and cane call her
out the window / delicate handful
dumps into papery palms / shhh

take these to trade.

© SF Jones, 2014

Dystopia is a poetic worldbuilding project. Each day for the next week, I will post a poem that exposes the characteristics of a fictional setting. The pieces will showcase the physical conditions and/or the emotions and interactions of the people who live there. Let your imagination run wild; I will do the same.

Dystopia – Day 6

Lacquer

He sprays outside
9 2 5 day in
day out bathing bricks
in neutrality.

Fast fix that
wanes with stranded smog
acidic and stagnant /
etching cement and loosening grains.

He watches it crumble

history, dreams, and déjà vu
repeat the circuit 925.

Mesh meant to catch
chunks missed / he’d watched
the fall the splitting skull

a casual mistake need no
one pay

mind when

He coats the body to see
what happens
when you seal her life
inside.

© SF Jones, 2014

Dystopia is a poetic worldbuilding project. Each day for the next week, I will post a poem that exposes the characteristics of a fictional setting. The pieces will showcase the physical conditions and/or the emotions and interactions of the people who live there. Let your imagination run wild; I will do the same.

Dystopia – Day 5

Utility

She caught him twice last week
shitting in the yard / so she pretends
nobody is home.

“Can I kiss your mouth?”
He taunts behind the closed door.

The stench of desperation and
unpaid utilities is not her problem

yet.
Town says

he burns
the wooden house for warmth.
Exotic coloured flames say
he incinerates other treasures.
Foraged junk and heaps.

The street is always
empty. Full of rules but
no enforcers and now
is not the time.

Later

she might need an ally.
When it’s her turn to
shit in the yard.

© SF Jones, 2014

Dystopia is a poetic worldbuilding project. Each day for the next week, I will post a poem that exposes the characteristics of a fictional setting. The pieces will showcase the physical conditions and/or the emotions and interactions of the people who live there. Let your imagination run wild; I will do the same.

Dystopia – Day 4

Cellar

The first drop
of each daily ritual hugs
slick along the glass
until gravity overcomes the
tension.

He fills flats of vials / one
by one with life saved
for later.

The front moves in.

Gusts rattle disobedient
tangles of coiled force
and tug at cement foundations.

Hard angles hide the lower level.

Dance with me
his yellowed smile rings.
Comforted by the
crimson hope refrigerated
in his cellar.

© SF Jones, 2014

Dystopia is a poetic worldbuilding project. Each day for the next week, I will post a poem that exposes the characteristics of a fictional setting. The pieces will showcase the physical conditions and/or the emotions and interactions of the people who live there. Let your imagination run wild; I will do the same.

Dystopia – Day 3

Nucleate

She watches others collect
clotting about the centre.
The crowd mostly silent
save the scuffle of boots
and chaffing overcoats.

Individuals indistinguishable
in the swaying huddle.

Baton waves
clear the assembly as quickly
as it coalesced.

Breaking bonds and
scattering pieces. Stifling
persistent calls,
“I’ve never seen one.”
Before the small, leafy
nucleus is collected.

© SF Jones, 2014

Dystopia is a poetic worldbuilding project. Each day for the next week, I will post a poem that exposes the characteristics of a fictional setting. The pieces will showcase the physical conditions and/or the emotions and interactions of the people who live there. Let your imagination run wild; I will do the same.

Dystopia – Day 2

Vaccine

Checkpoint lines
were longer with even
less people.
He was supposed to come
earlier after
three weeks of waits.

Inexcusable.
He was responsible
for timing.

They process you anyway,
but your brand has been
sitting out.
This whole lukewarm time.
Going sour.

He anticipates the
dose of memories.
Solidifying the weeks,
the months, the years before.
And wonders if they
will be laced with poison.

© SF Jones, 2014

Dystopia is a poetic worldbuilding project. Each day for the next week, I will post a poem that exposes the characteristics of a fictional setting. The pieces will showcase the physical conditions and/or the emotions and interactions of the people who live there. Let your imagination run wild; I will do the same.

Dystopia – Day 1

Apples

Only small ones were left.
Barely apples, wearing coats of
soft spots.
The secret is in the little
ones well matched with children.
That way /
more individuals fit in the
same tattered box.

They are easier to share
each their own.

Big ones are always picked
over first / but they are a challenge.
One taste makes it nearly
impossible to stop
the lust that prevents equality.
They take more and more.

Guards always frown at her,
sympathetic
with her withering harvest.
Then they weigh the apples.
Take two out.
And punch her rations card.

© SF Jones, 2014

Dystopia is a poetic worldbuilding project. Each day for the next week, I will post a poem that exposes the characteristics of a fictional setting. The pieces will showcase the physical conditions and/or the emotions and interactions of the people who live there. Let your imagination run wild; I will do the same.