some weird sin

iggy on the stereo sunday morning windows wide open blasting out the neighbours but who gives a toss crashed on the sofa scavenging joint butts for a pipe hoovering the dregs of headfuck cider mad juice i hear you vomiting noisily into the sink bent over laddered leggings and short black skirt something snaps and i grab your waist spin you round just enough time for shocked eyes in streaking make-up mouth wide open i kiss you hard smoke and booze and sick mixing with lust and panic struggling and kissing and kissing and struggling then something snaps in you licking my face biting my neck rolling in the crushed cans howling the words i feel stuck on a pin laughing and kissing and kissing and laughing i feel stuck on a pin just some weird sin

Russell J Turner – May 2011

When Someone Says ‘Duck’, Don’t Say ‘Quack’

There was a flyer proclaiming the second coming of Christ pasted to the outside of the window. Slightly on the slant. This intrigued Cass, who worried away at the peeling corner, giving the finger to an old woman sat at the back of the shop, counting beans and mouthing threats. The flyer covered a hole. A bullet hole. It looked like a small calibre, high velocity hole. Perfectly round with minimal cracking, though which side of the glass was the point of entry was difficult for Cass to discern. Ballistics were not really her forte. More of a hobby.
The old woman had stopped mouthing threats and was now removing a small selection of firearms from some hidden recess behind the counter. Cass sighed. All she had wanted was a pint of milk and some crackers, but had somehow managed to provoke a deranged suburban shopkeeper into starting a shooting match. When will you ever learn Cassandra?
Carefully she spat on the flyer and smoothed it against the glass, raised her hands in that universal gesture and backed slowly away from the window. This appeared to mollify the woman, who methodically stashed her guns away, made a zipping motion across her lips, and returned to counting her beans.
Whoever does that? Thought Cass as she walked up the road. Whoever actually counts beans?

Russell J Turner – May 2011

one hundred schools

one hundred schools

are flowering in the desert like roses
a carpet of red
fed on bread and watered with

wine and stale sweat

are covering my mouth like lilies
a living sheen of
green exhaling and breathing in

the fumes of night

are creeping through the room like strangers
a comfort of grey
they whisper the wisdom of

one hundred schools

Russell J Turner – May 2011

the dead done gone and did it again

a cheery singalong pantoum

the dead done gone and did it again
the dead done gone and shredded your heart
the dead will whistle their one refrain
the dead they tear your song apart

the dead done gone and shredded your heart
the dead paid the piper but forgot the tune
the dead they tear your song apart
the dead will be your playmates soon

the dead paid the piper but forgot the tune
the dead march on to a different drum
the dead will be your playmates soon
the dead enjoy vicarious fun

the dead march on to a different drum
the dead they freely waste your time
the dead enjoy vicarious fun
the dead done gone and ripped the rhyme

the dead they freely waste your time
the dead will whistle their one refrain
the dead done gone and ripped the rhyme
the dead done gone and did it again

Russell J Turner – May 2011

A Trick of the Night

Tricks told to a lover
Tricks sold to another
Tricks rolled undercover

Tricks taught to a loser
Tricks bought by a bruiser
Tricks sought by a user

Tricks turned on a sixpence
Tricks learned for a pittance
Tricks burned and good riddance

A trick of skin
A trick of the light
A trick of sin
A trick of the night

Russell J Turner – May 2011

an evening of fun in the metropolis of your dream

don’t take the stairs just fly through her open window break your reticence on the wheel of panic the wheel of time rolling and the iron cooling sweep her off her feet get down on your knee declare undying love in aramaic offer her that silver hoop that sapphire loop make her laugh get her drunk shower her in roses crown her with thorns nail her to a cross roll away the stone then pull her to your breast take her by the hand walk through the streets run through the streets dance through the streets in the soft evening rain the music of angels crying kiss her like tomorrow will never come because tomorrow never comes in the city in this city on this night as you surrender up your life to her your past to her your future to her your ever present now to her for a sliver of love for a handful of joy for an evening of fun in the metropolis of your dream

Russell J Turner - May 2011