Archive for the ‘Poetry-Prose’ Category

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These walls, they’re closing in on me,

Ruminating rumours,

Only doubting their authenticity,

Show me the light, the one that I need,

Only on the inside do I bleed,

I walk on and I smile or I glare,

Meeting their eyes with mine,

Seeing how much longer they dare,

I always win!

I always win!

I always win!


So come and ask me,

I don’t bite,

nor with with my hands shall I smite your presence,

I’m playing your games and I’m winning.

Until I die I shall be on top,

Bully me,

I could use the energy,

Hate me,

I’ll only love you back,

Do as you please,

I’m infamous till death do us part,

Take me away,

Harrow my soul some more,

Because it makes me laugh,  and I have grown to love it.

(c) Alex Turner 2016


Blue Blood

Posted: January 23, 2016 in Poetry, Poetry-Prose
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His once blue-blooded veins now flow with vodka,

He walks down the roadside,

Only seeing lovers entwined,

Fingers, thumbs,

Interwoven with an ivy vine,

Street lamps pulsating revivifying electricity,

Reviving lost memories of brighter times,

Seeds of despair and regret,

Blooming in the cage of his mind.


© Alex Turner 2016


Posted: October 8, 2015 in Poetry, Poetry-Prose
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there is what sounds like a middle-aged man sat behind me on the coach.

He is drunk.

How I wish I was drunk!

He has made the same phone call about four times.

He goes on to talk about work and how he hasn’t been paid for over-time.

He goes on to talk about how how he isn’t going to stand around doing nothing at work.

He goes on about how he wishes to get even more inebriated on the bus.

His voice is common and husky.

He sounds like a plumber or something like that.

someone who is used to the daily graft.

manual labor…

He sounds confused.

I imagine he has stubble.

And a short back and sided haircut.

I can’t help but wonder.

Has he found love ?

What are his hobbies?

Is he happy ?

Does he have children ?

He speaks with authority.

I think he is a boss or a manager of some kind, maybe self-employed ?

His life seems simple.

His problems ordinary.

I think I possess some kind of envious feeling towards him.

You know how some people are just plain and simply ordinary humans nothing more nothing less.

Like plain rice, casually just managing with no errors, just plain sailing until he dies.

Nothing else seems that different.

Just kind of generic…

A nine to five sort of guy.

I want what he has.

© Alex Turner 2015

An Island

Posted: August 3, 2015 in Poetry-Prose
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We’re on an island, an island I say!
Where a dark grey sky is never a miss, and to be ignorant is just sheer bliss.
Put down your pool cue and put up your fists.
Pits and pubs and pubs and pits.
Men dressed as women and women dressed as men.
There was a party of pirates too.
Our culture is now barren.
My generation is selfish and is prone to to fuck itself over over and over again.
I just hope to find the small group of exceptions .
The ones who fight for the good of our generation.
The ones who find the warmth in the dark animated shadow of night.
The ones who shall find the freedom of their persona.
Find themselves .
Not follow fads and the trends of the sheepish like majority on the God forsaken dull island.
Good luck. Good luck. Good luck.
Reach the end and find it. Reach for it . And catch it.
Because no one else will do it for you.

© Alex Turner 2015


Posted: July 28, 2015 in Poetry-Prose
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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

Just Another Tale

Posted: July 20, 2015 in Poetry-Prose
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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 Abbey

Posted: July 18, 2015 in Poetry-Prose
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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

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

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

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