'The Machinery of the Moment' is the first collection of poetry from Russell J Turner. To purchase a copy of the chapbook for three pounds (including p&p), use PayPal via rascalapache@yahoo.co.uk or contact him direct on headCRASH@hotmail.co.uk

Or alternatively, purchase a copy from The Book Hive, 53 London Street, Norwich - http://www.thebookhive.co.uk/ - a fine independent bookstore.

Friday, 4 June 2010

Leave Dada!

Leave your hearth and leave your home,
cross the Alps and conquer Rome.
Fly away! Fly away!
Join the circus, fly away.

Leave the city, leave the town,
burn the fucking temples down.
Fly away! Fly away!
Save your soul and fly away.

Leave the future, leave the past,
tie your children to the mast.
Fly away! Fly away!
Smell the coffee, fly away.

Leave the sunshine, leave the light,
walk in darkness and the night.
Fly away! Fly away!
Kill your king and fly away.

Leave the path and leave the trail,
go and dwell beyond the pale.
Fly away! Fly away!
Shoot the moon and fly away.

Leave your heart and leave your brain,
break your love on wheels of pain.
Fly away! Fly away!
Build a brothel, fly away.

Flog your horse and fly away,
sink your ships and fly away,
hang your gods and fly away,
God forgive you, fly away,
I forgive you, fly away,
I forgive you, please just stay.

half in love

half in love is half in pain and
half in pain is half in vain and
half in vain is half in hope and
half in hope is half a rope and
half a rope is half a drop and
half a drop is half a stop and
half a stop is half a start and
half a start is half a heart and
half a heart is half a head and
half a head is half a bed and
half a bed is half a breath and
half a breath is half a death and
half a death is half your days and
half your days are half your ways and
half your ways are half the map and
half the map is half the trap and
half the trap is half the kill and
half the kill is half the will and
half the will is half the win and
half the win is half-way in and
half-way in is half-way out and
half-way out is half in doubt and
half in doubt is half a fake and
half a fake is half a break and
half a break is half a bust and
half a bust is half in lust

Chester Street II (edit)

Standing on a tree stump
Smoking like a giant
Swinging like a dancer
Burning like a drunkard

Tissue paper purple
Cling film for a band aid
A breach of the horizon
Hazardous to aircraft

Watching from a tree stump
Smoking like a titan
Bathing in the thunder
Breathing in the cordite

Bonfires and remembrance
The mundane and the madness
A sickness for the suburbs
A tonic for the troops

‘You know it’s been a shit night when you crawl in through the window and the only dry clothes you’re wearing are your knickers.’

You stood me up, you cock,
you stood me up in the pouring rain.
You stood me up, you cock,
under neon lights in a state of shock.
Crying, shaking, worried sick,
but I forgive you now, you prick.
Though you fucking stood me up, you cock,
in the pissing, pouring rain.

You locked me out, you twat,
you locked me out in the pouring rain.
You locked me out, you twat,
like some mangy half-forgotten cat.
Fucked on weed and fucked on wine,
but I forgive you, one more time.
Though you locked me out, you fucking twat,
in the pissing, pouring rain.

You broke my heart, you cunt,
you broke my heart in the pouring rain.
You broke my heart, you cunt,
you fucked up, clueless, little runt.
But I forgive you, just relax,
while I fuck your brains out with an axe.
You broke my fucking heart, you cunt,
and you won’t do that again.

the buck starts here

i remember the eyes of children
strung out on wires
i remember the thighs of mothers
feeding the fires
i remember the sighs of fathers
gathering the bones of their families in hessian sacks
stumbling through the graveyards of europe
paying passage to the promised land
with their wits and their mouths and their memories
with barely a dollar to rub together
for a cup of cold comfort coffee
because the buck starts here

No Country For Young Women

I am a gardener.
But not your common variety:
More of a haughty culturalist,
An autocratic arborist,
A green-eyed jailhouse jardinier.

I sow and reap and reap and sow,
And plant gardens in the east;
I dig unnamed watercourses,
And give away all I grow,
Hedged around with conditions.

This is no country for young women:
Begotten, born and back-broken,
Amongst the fields, amongst the seed;
I fence the trees that they may need,
And curse the fruit, the fruit, the fruit.

I am the sole harvester
Of a dim-remembered age;
The lonesome arbiter
Of thyme and sage, because
I am the gardener.


For Frances


Your script is written on sheets of stone;
Desperate to take the long way home:
Destined for somewhere,
Put on your black hair,
Get in your car and drive and thrive.
Get in your car and stay alive.

Kill me with your kindness, mother;
God died when I was just sixteen.
Show me the silver screen, sister;
This town leaves a sour taste in my mouth.
Fetch me a forlorn fuck, lover:
There's an itch that only a man can scratch.

So he took her to his bed and kissed her,
Took her to his bed and wept because he loved her,
Took her to his bed and promised that he missed her,
Took her to his bed and whispered that he wanted her.
Held her till the dawn broke down the door
And slid its icepick through her eyes…


'I do not know Tyrone Power.
I fucked him a lot, but I do not know him.'

I opened up like a flower,
Sucked his sweet cock, but I do not know him.

Those boys may deprave you,
But God will not save you.

'Gentlemen, this meeting is over...
I don't care to sell your goddamned orange juice.'


Bring me a bourbon, brother;
Those hounds are howling in my skull.
Shower me with speed, mister;
The reds and the blues and the dancing shoes.
Though I have found hope with another:
There are hurts that only women heal.

So she crept into her head and kissed her,
Crept into her head and wept because she needed her,
Crept into her head and promised that she missed her,
Crept into her head and whispered 'I remember you'.
Held her till the dawn slipped through the door
And cast its roses on her eyes.

Your script is scraped in sheets of dust;
Beauty fades and memories rust:
Flirting with nowhere,
Stick with your fair hair,
Stay on your farm and strive and thrive.
Stay on you farm and just survive...


The Sound of Seattle fills your sight,
A house on a hill turns your mind to mud.

Will you ever sleep tonight?
That house on a hill breaks your heart in three.

Those boys may deprave you,
But we can still save you.

Friends and lovers, the curtain falls:
Though sense dims yet, we do not forget.