Jack Turner Biography

London calling
it's smokers lungs bleating
in sharp consonants, lulling vowels
a mother's voice calling to her bosom
...

I have a secret.
I keep it locked away, clutched to my heart.
I guard it with my life, and I may give it
But it will not let me go.
...

The white, white rot of apathy
Wraps its ivy fingers round my throat
I resist against the blinding blankness
But the will to fight is leaching from my ones
...

The twilight comes slowly,
Almost unnoticeable
and weary limbs sink thankful to the chair.
Another day over, and in for the night.
...

At 5 a.m., half drunk, still sober, stumbling
to a bus the yellow walls and yellow rails and yellow dirt and yellow faces of the yellow livered people
the night fades slowly to the dawn beating to the soundtrack of mumbles, groans and Andy Williams
Her face is blank, a vacant, pale canvas
...