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Chris C Turner

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Member Since: Jul, 2007

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The Stolen Baby
by Gwen Madoc

Swansea 1853 The Roxton Fair comes to the backwater village of Cwmrhyddin Cross and brings with it the illegal bare-knuckle boxing booth. Death follows in its wake. ..  
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Whenever it's all Too Sad
by Chris C Turner
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This poem originally published in Change Issue 2 Bratigan Plus

 Whenever It’s All Too Sad

I paint the world with a little Dylan
Or some Stones, Beatles, put ‘em on loud.
Then, with the music playing,
I look out of the window, and watch
London passing by. Keith and Mick
Are walking down Carnaby St in pink Flares.
John and Paul are recording in St. John’s Wood.
And I think, ‘Shit, exciting things are happening,
I must get out there!’
So I put on my shoes on
And take to the street.
I get on the tube, out into Soho,
And look for Keith and Mick.
But then, like the breeze around a tower block,
Or a fear of heights,
I get this block of something in my stomach.
I reach down into my gullet, and pull it out.
The block is the 1960’s, wrapped up tight
Like a present.
I try and unwrap it, but it’s made of
African hardwood or something.
It won’t budge.
So I’m walking around London
But really I want to be a peaceful hippy
With a beard in the ironwood block.
Keith and Mick are in there, drinking coffee.
Dylan’s in there, somewhere out in Minnesota,
Duluth or someplace. He’s sitting there,
Thinking about hitching to New York.
I sit on the English kerb, and watch corporate giants.
If only I could get inside the hard block,
I’d go with him, and we’d both make it big
In Greenwich Village.
But then, the corporate giants bend down
From their glinting buildings,
And gently prise my fingers from the block.
I tell them I’m sorry for wanting to be hippy,
But they’re mad with me, so I’m back feeling sad again.

Chris Turner 2006
(Originally published in Change Issue 2 Brautigan Plus)
 



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