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

the chemical blade intercedes

the light has gone out my dark eyed girl as i grip your hand grip your hand the chemical blade intercedes mirrors reflect only misery shattered through the golden dawn we ran down naked the chemical blade intercedes drowning in the love that filled us and the pain and the pain and the pain and the pain the chemical blade intercedes language is lost as tomorrow scrapes the inside of my skull you stand on another planet spinning and the chemical blade intercedes

Russell J Turner – July 2011

Another Stranger and Another Street

stumbling down sick-stained neon streets stalking some random stranger who walks past a pub so I enter the bar and drink a pint and exit the bar then rewind and repeat
rewind and repeat
another stranger and another street

then at pub number I can’t remember trailing the bloke in off the pavement poking me in the chest shouting something can’t focus properly but I see her at the end of the room short black hair short black skirt fishnets pumps and wide wide eyes
wide wide eyes
eyes to fall into and drown in surprise

the punch comes in but she’s already got me by the arm dragging me down the road round the corner laughing so much I can hardly breathe doubled up she grabs my chin slaps me twice and kisses me full on the lips
full on the lips
no sound but the silence of the beat that my heart skips

and the sun comes up and the sun goes down
and my world stops but the earth spins round

and I have forgotten what it was I drank to forget
and all that there is is her body in the bed
entwined around mine
and her voice in my head
and her smile yes her smile
and our future
for a while

Russell J Turner – July 2011

Let's Start Again

Bombs in bin bags, and little boy soldiers
bearing Kalashnikovs and a soul–stolen stare.
‘Don’t be a stranger,’ you said, as the
flickering black and white faded to scarlet.

These are the stuff of your dreams.
Millenarian fantasies girdle the earth,
faster than Puck but slower than the light,
and the world goes to hell in a hand-cart.

Yet you are no Pandora or Cassandra,
though your hope still hides in corners;
skittering from room to room
she whispers to no-one in particular:

‘Burn the churches, the temples, mosques
and synagogues. Piss on the grave of
consumerism and I will bless you and
bring forth sweet wine and roses.’

When I make the call you are climbing
another mountain, screaming at the
gathering storm, and the words stick in
my throat: ‘I love you. Please come home.’

Russell J Turner – June 2011

(après garde)

I cut my eyes with a carpet blade like some do it yourself Buñuel

(do it yourself Buñuel)

There are no collaborators here no martyrs to a back catalogue of the
twentieth century

(après garde)

We walk through the gardens
slashing burning burying
planting pruning cultivating

(Candide on ketamine)

Voltaire would have choked on our arrogance
I disagree entirely with what you are saying and
I will shoot you through the face if you say it again

(leave no witnesses)

Constructed to our own designs decaying in its
splendour

(brave brave new world)

Shit just got real

Russell J Turner – July 2011

Every Tattooed Slave

Every tattered shade hides a broken lamp,
A fuse-blown tale of luck and love lost.

Every shattered grave hides a broken joy,
A lonely Fall and a killing frost.

Every flattered maid hides a broken tramp,
A sweet double-standard that the boys ignore.

Every tattooed slave hides a broken toy,
A clockwork body which her lover wore.

Russell J Turner - July 2011