Me, Myself and The Other Guy

Is my hair too long?
Is my hair too short?
Am I too ostentatious?
Do I try too hard ?
Do I not try hard enough?
Am I too self obsessed?
Why are my fingers crooked?
Do I think too much ?
Do I think to little ?
Does she like me ?
Does he like me ?
Does she hate me ?
Does he hate me?
Do I care too much ?
Do I care to little?
Am I too nervous?
Am I too self conscious?
Am I too vain?
Shouldn’t I have more time for other people?
Do I care what other people think ?
No comment required.
© Alex Turner 2015



His ears always hear the sound of the ice cream van.
His sight is also fine.
He is pretty content with life.
He has interests and hobbies.
He is just human just like anybody else.
He doesn’t need to be anymore than he needs.
He is never late for work.
He isn’t particularly talented at anything.
He isn’t different.
He is himself.
© Alex Turner 2015

On The Edge of Albion

I’m on the edge of Albion,
Where the river connects the sea.
Alcohol in my system,
Guaranteeing a good time.
Euphoric blizzards filling up my mind.
Condensed bubbles of madness showing themselves to yours truly.
I’ve drank too much again,
walking amidst the sadness of night like a zombie.
And to my surprise I’m greeted by a guard who shows me my way home.
© Alex Turner 2015


Crack my head open like an egg,

to see what ideas and eccentricities lurk and wander inside.

Fry them up and ingest,

like planting a seed in the stomach,

trunks and branches protrude from my nose and mouth.

Grab my jacket then walk out the back door.

I’m going for a walk, on the highway of souls.

looking to give mine away.

Deep shades of black blue and purple under my eyes.

but I’m not tired,

I’m just headed to the city of night.

Stars so luminous and bright.

Rudimentary thoughts wade through my mind,

flashbacks to the other side.

Bearded men and sandy, sandy desert storms, cacti.

Sometimes you can be wrong,

but I’ll just keep on tagging along.

Bar to bar, beer after beer.

drug addicts cradled in fear.

green leaves of summer,

white powders of all seasons.

Faces hollow, shallow and empty.

© Alex Turner 2015

The Creative Blogger Award

I was nominated by Rileyreedauthor for the The Creative Blogger Award. Truly humbling thank you!

wpid-wp-1437107400676Photo Credit: Used photo from

So Here Are The Rules:

1. Nominate some blogs and notify the nominees.
2. Post the link of the blog that nominated you.
3. Share five random facts about yourself.

So, lets start with the facts.

1. I am currently writing my first book.

2. I have dark brown hair.

3. I am six foot tall.

4.I have a cat.

5. His name is Ginsberg

My nominees are:

1. Tony Single

2. Vivachange77

3. David Rollason

4. Pippa

You don’t have to participate if you don’t wish to do so.

Thanks a bunch,

Alex 🙂


Sweet innocence of contemporary times,

something that is amiss all to frequently.

Everyone will have their fifteen minutes of fame as one man once said they would.

Patience and impatience,

boredom and content.

Subjected to the elements of everyday life,

to gain some kind of experience,

like new born kittens.

They take what they want,


Every man has his price,

sellouts and ass-kissers,

twenty ways to see the world.

© Alex Turner 2015

Just Another Tale

We rode on the sidecar of the motorcycle, through halls and halls of abandonment, looking to get through to the other side.

Fresh like darling buds of may. Cats and vampires there were so many. espresso coffees and coffee stained pages of imaginative fragments, highlighting the insecurities of the  world.

Trying to save those who were brushed under the carpet of society.

Abandoned buildings, busy brothels, broken homes and fires so many fires.

You see, frequent destruction of life, breaks my heart. How could so many hurt and hurt, but never give any decency back. We are nothing but take, take, takers.

An entourage surrounding a son of greed and might, and so the raconteur tells the story of the madness that lurks within our walls. His mind,old and frail, his tales though still as sharp as a razor blade. He once had a dream of pain and death and stomach ulcers, and so it repeated and repeated. Until the old man of story telling could feel no more.

Claws and endless claws, scratching digging into what is left of life. Cathartic  writings of old yellowing claws yearning for the return of it’s youth.

We sat around a coffee table. She played footsie with me underneath. Luring me into a trap, a void of self-destruction. Back handed compliments and endless obfuscation, but what an ass she had.

I was left in a prism of thought for twelve hours, my mind was broken and repeating itself, hallucinations and a vivid pain like torture.

Wooden flowers surround my feet, suffering the the consequences for a so-called democracy. She likes to spin a web for her prey and wait until she catches them. Slowly weaving their minds with webs.

Each advertisement kicking them in the teeth. Civilization begins and ceases to exist every fucking day. We grow older, begin to understand what life really is. shameful, fearful, just a mess. But no fears because it’s just another tale.

© Alex Turner 2015

The Flea Market

Small mountains taking on the foot steps of giants.

the hustle of the flea market.

vinyl, scratched Cd’s but no sign of a flat-screen TV.

Strawberries at two for a pound! Roll up! Roll up!

The sound of feet marching between the stalls,

happy old men in overalls.

Hagglers haggling trying to save each and last penny for themselves.

Stale cheap perfume and cigars haunt the air.

Wheeler dealers and tea-leafs alike,

all in search for a better life.

© Alex Turner 2015

The Abbey

Delicate shards of green grass.

Mysterious ruins,

each and every stone with a story to tell.

Well traveled sorts selling their art in and around the ruins.

A museum full of art and history.

you’d walk through the doors and feel as if you were in a different time.

old alchemist shops; full of opium and battered old hopes of success, near ancient Sunday schools, old desks and books. Praise him! Praise him!

Bored mothers bored fathers sat supping tea from cups, excited children lost in their imaginations.

I saw a painting.

It was of an old canal.

I stood lost in its atmosphere and awe, dark towers with reflective light shining off the sides. The water reflecting the earths shadows.

The spirits of the monks surrounded the abbey.

wandering and brewing mead.

The sun flirting amidst the clouds,

not daring to show herself.

A light summers breeze lingered and brought a subtle chill.

An enjoyable day, in the center of the northern star of Albion.

© Alex Turner 2015

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