Archive for July, 2015

Acoustic Roses

Posted: July 16, 2015 in Poetry
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Acoustic flowers,

Acoustic roses,

Who pose a threat to an industry of broken smiles.

Acoustic flowers,

acoustic roses,

who grasp the string from which the stars hang, on a lonely night.

And the moon,

so high away past the skies.

The moon,

who keeps the worlds waters at bay.

keeping the floods and tsunamis away.

© Alex Turner 2015

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The Harbor

Posted: July 13, 2015 in Poetry, Poetry-Prose
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I sit by the harbor, illuminated ropes hold the boats onto the edge of the marina. People gather round to see the circle of keys rotate for the very first time.

Pigeons feast on the remnants of grain left by the ships, and beat the seagulls to their daily feed. Industrial cogs turning away throughout the nights. Luxurious yachts passing by through the day.

Endless cement covers the horizon, with cracks, where nature fights back against the iron fist of man.

Grandfathers and grandsons, fishing away without a shadow of doubt that some thing shall catch their hook. Sour-faced machine operators munching away on sandwiches.

Violin string waves linger within the airwaves.

Four wheeled machines sound with a roar, four legged friends growl without pause.

mysterious chains and hooks, old ladies cups of tea and romantic books.

sand in wellies and sand in boots. Seaweed and starfish drying away without hope.

A super sensory Shangri-la!

© Alex Turner 2015

On the Road Going Nowhere Podcast | Episode 4

 
Please Enjoy. http://theroadgoingnowhere.podbean.com/
 
Please, send me some of your poetry at alexturner569@yahoo.co.uk

I’m on a road going nowhere, to turn left or right would only be in spite of my pride. I look up to the night sky and see the pinholes through the darkened cotton cloth of night.

I make my way forward, slowly burning what’s left of my energy away. I stop and take up shelter on my lonely road. Ready for some shut-eye, the exhaustion lingering in my bones.

The next day, I awaken and see a group old hobos around an old oil drum. Although they have nothing, they have smiles upon their faces. Taking each and every moment as it comes, and taking their memories and grasping onto them for dear life.

One of the men’s faces is terribly aged but he doesn’t seem to be all that old, but his eyes glow with a subtle, radiant joy, as if he has all he needs. Unlike anything I have ever seen.

I continue walking, until I come across an old abandoned house. I enter. There are old vintage portraits of people on the walls and everything has been left, as if they had been living there the previous evening. Dishes in the sink and an ashtray upon the kitchen table accompanied by a packet of cigarettes. An old radio, it seems to be from the nineteen-fifties, is the only node of entertainment in the living room.I leave the old home.

I continue my journey onward towards nowhere. there hasn’t been a car in miles. Wherever it is that I’m headed cannot be a place to which many people venture to.

Sunshine glistens off of an old piece of scrap metal on the side of the road. Beams of light cutting through the shadows of day.

An iguana chases a locust along the ground for his supper.

I lay my head upon a large rock and close my eyes and take in the past days events.

© Alex Turner 2015

Black Fox

Posted: July 12, 2015 in Poetry
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Thanks for the picture Martin Bailey!

Little black fox,

tip-toeing around like the pure heroine she is.

Contemplating each step before it has happened.

Natures own Robin Hood.

Seeing the world through slit, brown eyes,

each sniff and move filled with grace.

Timid, she will dart away with such grandeur,

that we could only stand and stare in awe.

She hears you before she has seen you,

crouches and pounces upon her prey.

She is her own entity.

She is the black fox.

© Alex Turner 2015

Writing

Posted: July 11, 2015 in Poetry
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Writing, writing, writing, writing, writing, writing,

Letters, numbers all become the same,

I may become insane, just to see if I’m sane.

The letters belittle me with smug smiles.

Torn and screwed up pages in piles.

The blank space on my page is my enemy,

I have won the battle but not the war.

Bemoaning simple perplexities is my awe.

The booze helps.

© Alex Turner 2015

Deceptive, small and poisonous butterflies.

Rusty rails and decomposing rats tails,

horrifying my conscience without fail.

Drowning without death, continuing to inhale the salty blackened water,

as I fall deeper and deeper slowly ceasing to exist.

unable to awake myself self from this dreaded slumber,

could this be reality?

Impaled without death seeing my separated body beneath me.

Chaotic shadows whirling around me like graceful impalas.

Such dark and terrifying beauty.

I awaken in a cold sweat inhaling the sweet oxygen that is my nectar,

I am flustered and disorientated, traumatized.

The terrors of my nightmares haunt me throughout my conscious days.

Night terrors!

© Alex Turner 2015

The Man In A Suit

Posted: July 10, 2015 in Poetry-Prose
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Man in a suit.

He’s got the taste of success on the tip of his tongue.

He grabs the train and walks to work,

nothing in his world can go wrong.

He looks so busy with his Bluetooth earpiece,

the man is never left in peace.

It’s a hard life in a harsh world,

and he isn’t about to give up and be consumed.

Although his beautiful wife would have you believe otherwise.

His slicked back hair looks just right,

but you can see the wind will give it a fight.

He goes to work and is surrounded by his chums,

and the pretty receptionist he may or may not have a thing for.

He sits down to get underway , a meeting in a world where everything is okay.

He goes goes home after a busy day and is welcomed by another average burnt dinner,

far from a winner.

His wife glares from the other side of the table.

Alas, it’s another day in a world where everything is okay!

© Alex Turner 2015

Faces

Posted: July 9, 2015 in Poetry
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Faces leave traces on the mind.

An opportunist seeks time to unwind,

maybe to a land desolate he shall go.

The saboteur waits in hiding,

seeking, seeing and searching for her prey.

She strikes with exquisite speed.

seeing into her mind could make you bleed,

and the circle goes on turning.

as the weakest link in the chain falls

faces leave traces on the mind.

© Alex Turner 2015

The Stout Truth About Love

Posted: July 8, 2015 in Poetry
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Shrouded innocence, shielded, blighted

by pestilence.

Can by can. I can !

Drinking my way into an inherent oblivion.

a mass of aluminium covers the floor,

wading my way through the metal precipitation.

Eyes bloodshot, my head hurts.

I seem to have a case of gut rot.

My beer, can’t you see that I love you.

Why don’t you love me back!

© Alex Turner 2015