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Christie-Luke Jones

Opal Coast


Christie-Luke Jones is a poet, fiction writer and actor from Oxfordshire, England. Christie-Luke’s writing is strongly influenced by the Gallic blood that courses through his veins, as well as his interest in the more macabre aspects of the human condition. 


His work has been published in a number of journals and literary magazines, including: Cultured Vultures, Calliope Magazine, Peeking Cat Poetry & Sanitarium Magazine.


To see more of his work, visit

A solitary orange for breakfast; she delivers it with her unmistakably virginal smile, kneels by my bed in thanks.

My body fizzes with polarising urges strong enough to kill us both. 


Her apartment is beyond all comprehension; I feel undeserving of its pine-scented air, the only discordant note in an otherwise harmonious melody.


She dresses in furs and heavy knits.

Her glowing skin and lithe body are untouched by the sweating guilt of midnight trysts.


A nervous laugh rocks the vast drifts as our paths tentatively entwine across the blank expanse of canvas.

Our eyes devour in absence of trembling lips. 


The inevitability is palpable.

A joyful expression of unspoken lust; her hands scream to be touched.

I debate the drop, survey the cliff edge with a melting restraint.


Hurtling forth; I find myself discussing pickled herring in her father's slippers.

God-fearing Christians, no doubt afraid of this wolf in sheep's clothing.

Such a charming sheep, though. I bleat and graze with impeccable timing, convince even myself.


Neither of us find sleep that night.
Impatience drives me to my annex room, whilst her mind is a dance of plush hearts and handwritten love letters.


Another 12 hours to keep my mask from slipping.

Glassy almonds of many colours strewn about,
Massaged by frothy hands.

The ghosts of conflicts past scuttle giddily on abundant limbs.
Armed and ready, should opportunity knock a second time.

A grey-green genetic soup swells and heaves under Paleolithic gates.

To the South lies the North,
Its ashen hills and sleepy cimtières a proud hinterland.

The painful thrill of the icy current. The jagged rocks. The slimy, choking weeds.
Elemental forces unburdened by the the lethal follies of man.

Blood is spilled under Blanc Nez, as it was decades ago.
But there is no razor wire now, no rusty barbs waiting to eviscerate lumbering lions.

A baraque à frites sat stoically atop a wind-scorched ascent hails the wounded,
Their cuts and scrapes glistening as they congeal under a lemon yellow sun.

Feel your limbs, light, almost emancipated from your body,
Your face tautened by the healing saline breeze.
Blood courses flamingo pink through your youthful veins,
Breathing life into those crumbling Republican pillars.

You sense that this is it, that this is where you need to be.

So aux armes! Defend this blissful feeling lest it die here,
Anchor your spirit to the restless dunes and demand your droit du sol.

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