On Being Drunk and Googling Death for Answers

Drunk last night I’d Googled death,
Demanding he answer why
When I was only five,
Had he slipped in shadowy form through
The floorboards of the family home
Like voices of an argument in a room below
Thieving her breath
Till come morning
We found her
Pallid like a forgotten porcelain doll.
Why couldn’t we have discovered
Her radiant and suspended
Above the bed, in the chubby hands of angels:
Divinely robed in a godmade veil of sunbeam-
Whilst seraphs serenaded from the ceiling
With harps emblazoned with golden souls.
Surely this was deserved for one
Who’d embraced each bead of the rosary
As thought it was the hearts of her kin.
I never received the apology nor reason
Merely four million links associated with his name
And a quirky little site
In which Death, with the appropriate details
Would kindly inform
The precise date in which he’d come knocking
Or slinking through my door.
With this I close my laptop
And place a post-stick upon my fridge
To remind me once sober
January the 17th 2043
The date in which
He and I shall discuss
The small matter of the painful legacy of his indifference.
__________________________________________________________

Death, Whiskey, and Sunrise

“It left its boot mark on me at an early age, an age
When only the lipstick of loving admirers should have
Spotted my face.”

To signify his disdain for my moments of wandering mind
With soldiers tone he’d bellow hello
Lingering on O till its lasso hauled me back to the table.
From atop the daily paper determined eyes bore down-
Shrewd tools of silent power. Far from the look given,
When my pale faced mother presented him
A fair haired, wrinkle skinned reason to stay.
Two days later she died, a rupture in the womb,
We never met with our skin, just with the haze in our eyes.

From first hold it was always going to be a struggle
Stern and unnatural I screamed till I slept-
Nine months of waiting, the crib overused for its purpose.
Can the slap of a slipper translate as concern, all young
Minds are balloon full of hope, he never had nipples,
How could he ever compete?

Whiskey for some is danger; I only have praise for the stuff.
There is pleasure in Pain, eight shots down, we became equals,
comrades of a cruel blow. Watching cartoons, he’d ruffle my hair.
Blowing the dank air of alcohol upon me.
We fell asleep, entwined
My head buried into his crumpled drunk form-
Till morning bullied light through worn curtains,
Shattering the equality of suffering
Slamming it upon the breakfast table, and spilling it upon my lap.

Vincent Turner is des South of London, when not writing poetry he works as a drug and alcohol/ mental health worker, selfishly he finds this a major source of food for his muse. Vincent has been writing for over 5 years now but has only just begun to scatter his work into cyberspace, in the hope for a little recognition.
You can read more of his work at his blog- fortherainfromthegrave.blogspot.com