Sister Laudanum

For Lizzie.

Sister Laudanum takes my hand,
And bides her time, and bides her time.
Sister Laudanum gives me strength,
And bides her time, and bides her time.
Sister Laudanum names her price,
And bides her time, and bides her time.
Sister Laudanum claims her prize,
Yet bides her time, still bides her time.

The world may hold me responsible
For the failings of my lover.
But the world knows nothing.
Society may sneer at me
For the failings of another.
And society may go hang.

Sister Laudanum is my rock,
Yet takes her toll, still takes her toll;
Brings comfort to her faithful flock,
She plays her predetermined rôle:
Screaming, crying, possessed and wild,
Prostrate before the still-born child.
Sister Laudanum comes to me,
And Sister Laudanum sets us free.

Russell J Turner - May 2010

A Variegated Polar Bear

A further series of random musings.

Another Overpriced Abstraction
Three for the price of one.

Marx told me to do it,
Yeah, Marx told me to do it:
Carve a workers' paradise from the bones of bureaucrats,
Sculpt statues on every factory floor,
Scrawl platitudes across the mouths of the bourgeoisie,
And torch the bank, the mansion and the stock exchange.
Torch the bank, the mansion and the stock exchange.

Saatchi told me to do it,
Yeah, Saatchi told me to do it:
Build a bed and sleep in it,
Buy a book and spit on it,
Slice a calf and worship it,
And torch the portfolio, the museum and the gallery.
Torch the portfolio, the museum and the gallery.

God told me to do it,
Yeah, God told me to do it:
Fling whitewash on a bloodstained shawl,
Synthesise the concrete from the speculative,
Tattoo oracles on the skin of courtesans,
And torch the mosque, the chapel and the synagogue.
Torch the mosque, the chapel and the synagogue.
Torch the mosque, the chapel and the synagogue:
When God tells you to do it.

You're My Father and I Won't Renege It
For Kenneth.

You are my father and I don't deny it,
You are my father and I won't decry it,
You are my father and I don't denounce it,
You are my father and I won't renounce it.
In sickness as in health,
In poetry as in wealth:
You were my father, for better or worse,
For good or bad, for happy or sad,
In covert prose and overt verse.
You were my Father and now you're dead,
You're still my father in my head

Hark! The Chicken King Lives!
Almost a sonnet.

The Chicken King lives by the sea
In a castle made of sand.
The Chicken King has daughters three
For whom their father seeks the hand
Of a cockerel with a sense of fun,
A cockerel who will get things done,
And a cockerel who will never run
When wind and hail and lashing rain
And high tides threaten his domain.
For the Chicken King he is no fool,
And he has learned the golden rule:
That when your Kingdom's in the shit
Get your son-in-law to deal with it.

Russell J Turner - April 2010

'I Agree With NIck'

A series of random electoral missives.

A Love Letter to the Tories

Dead David.
You make me moist.
Not moist in a sexual way of course -
I'm not fucking mad
And besides, you're a married man.
No, I mean the 'I want to cry and wet myself at the same time'
Kind of moist.
You know what I mean.
The kind of moist which oozes out of your every orifice.
Ooh, now that really does make me moist.

A Message to Labour

Dear Gordon.
Oh dear Gordon.
Not looking too sharp, is it?
Best you hole yourself up in a cave in the Highlands
And twitter incoherently until it's all over.
And they give you a life peerage.
And all those lovely speaking engagements come rolling in.
Life's a bitch, eh?

An Ode to the Lib Dems

Dear Nick.
I don't really know much about you.
But that Vince Cable seems very nice -
Just the kind of mildly irreverent,
Slightly humorous chap we need running the economy.
Every body's favourite mad old uncle.
Shame you're the party leader and not him :(

Another Ode to the Lib Dems

Dear Nick.
I know a bit more about you now.
Apparently you're almost as popular as Churchill.
How the fuck did that happen?
But I still prefer Vince Cable.
Sorry :(

A Limerick for the Greens

Dear Caroline, you really are right-on,
As you scrap for their votes down in Bright-on,
For no-one should mess
With the Green high priestess,
The kind of girl I could excite-on.

A Note to UKIP

Dear whatever the fuck your name is.
I really want a suit just like yours.
So I too can look like an English gentleman.
Instead of a xenophobic twat.
Indistinguishable from all the other xenophobic twats.
Except for the colours of your rosette,
Which I will pin through your face if I get the chance.
Just to teach you a lesson.
So there.

A Haiku for the BNP

Dear Nick, I will vote
for your party when Hell free-
-zes over you cunt.

Russell J Turner - April 2010

White Chalk Scream

Slow and sensuous, here we go,
P J Harvey for the stereo;
And it's a white chalk scream:
Playing with Polly Jean.
A white chalk bitch:
Grow, grow, grow with the wicked witch.

Slow and sensuous, up we rise,
P J Harvey for tonight's star prize;
And it's a white chalk scream:
Screwing with Polly Jean.
A white chalk bitch:
When under ether with the wicked witch.

Slow and sensuous, there we fall,
P J Harvey for that last clear call;
And it's a white chalk scream:
Going down on Polly Jean.
A white chalk bitch:
A dose of magic from the wicked witch.

Russell J Turner – February 2010

Actions and Consequences

Nothing is forbidden.
Actions have consequences.
Convention may be overridden
But actions still have consequences.

I saw you crying in the summer rain
For the lies and the liquid that kept me sane,
And the pain and the pain and the pain and the pain:
Actions have consequences.

I saw you lying in a clean white bed
With those bloody memories in your head,
Screaming for our unborn dead:
Actions have consequences.

I saw you sighing in the cemetery,
Though you no longer speak to me,
But that’s OK coz our minds are free.
If not our hearts.

Russell J Turner – February 2010

The Fatuous Counsel Shines

A series of random musings.

Every Married Fuller Relays a Trace

I had to look the word 'fuller' up in the dictionary.
It means one who fulls cloth.
Now cloth I understand, but how does one full it?
I know how how to fill it, to twill it, to drill it.
To even Bang and Cillit.
But to full it is to scour and beat it.
And the vision of a married fuller bringing his work home,
Relaying a trace of unfulfilled satisfaction
On his scoured and beaten wife,
Was too much to contemplate.
So I turned it off
And powered it down.

A Victim Amazes a Finished Tourist

She was a finished tourist.
Not a Finnish tourist.
But a finished tourist,
Like Moe Tucker in those Velvet Underground photos,
A naughty schoolgirl amongst Nordic ice blondes
And impossible men with shades.
Perhaps a victim once, but now amazed
To find herself, at last, in the town of her dreams.

The Collective Challenges the Suffix

"We, the undersigned,
Wish to express our disagreement, our disappointment,
Nay, even our disgust,
At the unilateral decision
By the permanent steering committee
To label our endeavours, our struggles,
Nay, even our sacrifices,
With an 'ism'.
'Ism' is a bourgeois concept,
A weapon the petty minded use
To oppress their enemies with language.
For we are freeborn men and women,
Ready to fight, to bleed,
Nay, even to die,
For Universal Socialism."
"Bollocks."

Protein Opens the Sexist Grave

The screams of centuries beat their drum:
Protein opens the sexist grave!
The baby-killers have their fun:
Protein opens the sexist grave!
Mitochondrial DNA:
Protein opens the sexist grave!
The Mother Goddess shows the way:
Protein opens the sexist grave!
Protein opens the sexist grave,
Protein opens the sexist grave.
Like the Worm Ouroboros, I creep in the grass;
Protein opens the sexist grave!
Like the Worm Ouroboros, I'm up my own arse.

Why Does an Impaired Galaxy Sweep Across the Recipient?

"This examination lasts two hours.
You may use as much rough paper as you wish,
But all working must be handed in with the answer sheets.
Attempt no more than three of the five questions."

"Question One:
Why does an impaired galaxy sweep across the recipient?"

Fuck.
I knew I should have revised that.

Russell J Turner - February 2010

Rothko on Your Thighs

Dedicated to everyone in the audience who has ever performed cunnilingus on a menstruating woman.

Last night you were so graceful,
Last night I got a faceful;
Some might call it distasteful,
But certainly not wasteful.

And as the air grew thicker,
That sharp metallic liquor,
The light began to flicker,
My heart beat ever quicker.

Last night was a reunion,
Last night was a communion,
The bride invites her groom in,
The first time I felt human.

The first time I knew no fear,
The first time that I saw clear
The acts that bring us so near;
Last night I fell in love dear.

Some might call it insightful,
Or maybe just delightful,
Whilst others think it fateful,
Last night I was just grateful.

Russell J Turner - February 2010