The Prevention of Literature

After an essay by George Orwell

The glories that we find in fourteen lines
May justify those wars and battles fought,
Or timeless conflicts of another sort,
With portents, miracles and wondrous signs.
For there is power in a crafted rhyme
And beauty in a gleaming frozen thought,
But power, craft and beauty may be bought,
Then set to service in some evil time.
A time when we should heed the clarion call
And steel ourselves to face the common foe:
Though literature and journalism fall,
Yet poetry shall be the last to go;
Till jackboots echo, endless, down the halls,
As Orwell whispers “See, I told you so...”

Russell J Turner – February 2012

oh it's unlust and the one dimensional boy

she clips her nails like a film star carves fame into tawdry caravan doors swooping aerodynamically down some red carpet into a golden future where young men file her tax returns and fawn on hearth rugs drunk on hearth rugs till that faded photo microphone thrust where did it all go wrong just sing that same old song but who’s this puppy on your shoulder is it marriage is it love the fingers scrape again again oh it’s unlust and the one dimensional boy

Russell J Turner – February 2012

God Loves a Sinner

After R.B.

I sat with Bukowski
on the steps of the
dock, sharing a
cigarette, shooting
lasers at the moon to
measure the distance
from dusk to dawn.
He talked about drink,
starvation and crazy,
crazy women. I talked
about Plato, Elvis and
Baudelaire. The sun
went down and the sun
came up. The post office
dug its deep claws
into both of us.

Russell J Turner – December 2011

freedom!

cracks open the sky a ragged scar from sunrise to sunrise as all those maybes those quantum ghosts pour out on steeds of jet black night waving their swords of pure white light

kisses you on the lips the lips and grabs you by the hips the hips

runs through the fields of tomorrow laughing at the joy of just being alive at the possibilities inherent in a blade of green in a future glimpsed in a fragmentary dream

builds topless towers of idiom breaks formal language on wheels of real

sits patiently by the bed until some drowning breath lifts up its shroud and dark dust settles with one last squeeze walks out head high to few regrets debts paid plans made

is a wind swept dangerous disco dancer who never never never takes no for an answer

Russell J Turner – November 2011

Spiders

A girl on the bus plucked a spider
from my hair today. She said it was
annoying her. With long dark hair and a
nice smile, but young enough to be my
daughter, so instead of flirting I read my
book and didn’t see where she got off.
I know that there are things which will
haunt me for the rest of my life.

Russell J Turner – July 2011

nous baisons les flâneuses

hand in hand they walk the city in a darkening noon scribbling occult signs on street corners bleeding meaning from the twisted pipework nous les cherchons toujours kissing under a sodium dawn making violent love behind broken wires running naked through the underpasses nous les suivons toujours hand in hand they slice and shuffle maps cartographers of possibility interpreters of stained signals builders of the already built sibyls of some civic future nous aimons les meufs urbaines nous baisons les flâneuses

Russell J Turner – October 2011

Heading South for a Sinner

Heading south for a sinner,
With the jugglers and the smugglers,
The diamond rhymers and the hard two-timers.
Fleeing down the barrel of a desert line,
Fleeing from the fear and the broken years;
Scattering our twenties across sand and scrub,
Hash, cheap booze and jungle.

There were nights bigger than the skies:
Woodfire scavenged,
Planned, rammed and scammed.
Stars as bright as fucking needles
Sliding through the nets,
Hung like cheap scenery,
And skewering our sight.

And the mornings.
Those 5 o’clock hangover headfuck mornings:
Too bright light and no horizon, no perspective,
Just some diesel-driven imperative:
Heading south for a sinner.
For another cheap dinner
Or a low rent winner.

Then the sea rose up to greet us,
To wash our feet and drown our debts.
Then the sea rose up to eat us,
To drag us down with few regrets,
With sex and drugs and rock ‘n’ roll:
Heading south for a sinner.
Heading south to save some soul.

Russell J Turner – October 2011