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UNDERGROUND VOICES: POETRY
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VINCENT TURNER
On Being Drunk and Googling Death for Answers Drunk last night I’d Googled death, Demanding he answer why When I was only five, Had he slipped in shadowy form through The floorboards of the family home Like voices of an argument in a room below Thieving her breath Till come morning We found her Pallid like a forgotten porcelain doll. Why couldn’t we have discovered Her radiant and suspended Above the bed, in the chubby hands of angels: Divinely robed in a godmade veil of sunbeam- Whilst seraphs serenaded from the ceiling With harps emblazoned with golden souls. Surely this was deserved for one Who’d embraced each bead of the rosary As thought it was the hearts of her kin. I never received the apology nor reason Merely four million links associated with his name And a quirky little site In which Death, with the appropriate details Would kindly inform The precise date in which he’d come knocking Or slinking through my door. With this I close my laptop And place a post-stick upon my fridge To remind me once sober January the 17th 2043 The date in which He and I shall discuss The small matter of the painful legacy of his indifference. Birdsong Watching his car pull out into the street Exhaust fumes spluttering farewell She loosens her grasp of the curtain Watching lines of light disband. Dawn falls back upon the twittering Birds that perch on bare branches Celebrating the break of day Reminding her of the children she will Never have, who will never upon Waking, jump upon the bed, Fresh faced and expectant. She sits by the window cursing at Mothers who bare their children’s Knees to the cold, rubbing her womb As though a genie will arise and with Pity grant her husband a single working Sperm, so that her mornings will be blessed With the sound of anything else but herself. Vincent Turner resides in a London, breathing much of his inspiration for his work from the smog stained, diverse streets that fork through high rise estates and grandiose million pound houses. Now at the tender age of 27 he has finally decided to scatter his work into cyberspace, hoping it lands upon a planet that echoes his thoughts. Vincents work has been published in Gloomcupboard, readthismagazine, 3lights, literaryreview.com. |
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