UNDERGROUND VOICES: POETRY
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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