Jack Turner

London Calling

London calling
it's smokers lungs bleating
in sharp consonants, lulling vowels
a mother's voice calling to her bosom
a pillow
in the City of Dreams

The wordless fields, speechless roads
gape and swallow like a hungry fish
The empty air echoes, taunts
and jeers

at night the small stone walls turn into brick
and pavements grow from grass
and orange faces peer red-eyed
through the dark

the twigs crack underfoot
brittle fingers like the lies
that keep me

and night time calls again

Poem Submitted: Thursday, December 18, 2008

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Comments about London Calling by Jack Turner

  • Tai Chi Italy (12/19/2008 7:22:00 PM)

    how close to truth you tread Jack! Merry clitoris to you, Tai, coughing her heart up!

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