JONATHAN R. PARSONAGE
'This is 'of-something' but still 'isn't quite''
Jonathan R. Parsonage is a writer, musician and painter from Bristol, UK. Jonathan works in many different forms, producing essays and prose, but mostly writing poetry. In recent months, Jonathan has begun interrogating the relationship between poetry and painting. His poems increasingly feature linguistic acrobatics, and concern themselves with aesthetics, and the deconstruction of poetic ‘norms’. ‘This is ‘of-something’ but still ‘isn’t quite’', is a prose-painting in which Jonathan R. Parsonage is attempting to conjure a lingua-centric mise en scène.
The pen is an editing tool. It is a number-writer, a deliciously slow e-mail roaster. ‘g’ can be ‘j’ and vice-versa, ending up the same.
Dreams I had a few weeks ago are nightmare things: broken kettles, hob-gas without flame, turps without paint, a blind watch.
My hands ache. Guitars, pens and pussies are tools of mutual torture. I don’t know how I ended up here, but we all did in the end.
I soften the blow; hands a circle around the tower. Woozy-woos and tap water as towers come down. Abuse without relent.
To lose all faculties of language and movement.
Fucking is catastrophic. The sweat guilty; the Other adjacent. The scent is arrogant, so it avoids being smelt.
This is ‘of-something’ but still ‘isn’t quite’. It’s as just as mathematics. It’s fact.
The evenings bloom in orange and flirt with purple mornings. The night, azure, is not itself. Indecisive as money.
I am widely disliked. Alien. Contextualised, unapologetic. Aloof: A loose portrait hanging on a wet wall. The scream at gunpoint.
Subtlety, the ‘un’. Violence is a tool. I am not to blame. This has all been said before. A fools-canon banging.
Terror is lucrative. Black-sand lungs aren’t free. Believe the terror of and in a doctor. Believe the terror of a beyond.
Beyond, worms in space breathe their first. Still, beating is moving and so still isn’t movement.
Flashing down, nude bronze hips plunging earthward. Was she copper? Was she glass? It was so long ago, I forget.
Glass, surely. It is. Memory like light; light aroused and caressing both curve and crevasse.
The water in your eyes is distortion.
I am walking now.
I am walking like a witness.
I move from lamppost to lamppost.
I look up -
I trip over a cobble, alone.
You can find more of Jonathan on Instagram or you can contact him at email@example.com.