"turnstiles" poems
Orange peel Thursdays and the Velcro shoes
Of children hordes
Who spider up Alice on toadstools in Central Park
Dusted psilocybin shoots my eyes through
With the clarity of ice and sliced mushroom
Steeping in stomach acid before finding blood
The kids are tripping like madmen or halloween candy
Like its time to release and give up to the nonsense
And let your young self congeal to a saccharine sludge
I don’t stroll in the park to keep my mind sharp
I’m here because it’s a riot
My head can throb to the jittery birds
And the blasts of carsong
It’s the right kind of rhythm to walk to
** ** **
Ketamine days and the lolling slums
To make sure the insane stay insane
And the hobos are washed with spit from the clouds
And the subway exhaust always hangs in our hair
And the old Coney Island burns again and twice more
We don’t pretend to understand what we see
In subway grates thirty feet wide
Like the earth punching out of work for a bit
Opening to you her *** belly
So you can check out the strips of metal inside
Before she slurps you down and with an esophageal squeeze
Shoots you through the turnstiles
The train squeals and grinds down our eyes
With thoughts as slow as ketamine
Makes room for schizophrenia in a conversation
We’re listening to ‘til sundown
** ** **
Years full of Brooklyn and the assorted pills
Makes offal fit for punks in name brand shoes
Squared off with police in the park
Being beaten for the fun of being beaten
Peacoat locals pass the days in supermarkets
And you grow up to the loony mumble
Of the woman who knows the boat
Moored at the end of the street
Mansion of the stray cat colony
You help her with her daily chore to feed them
Tabbies popping the pills of the homeless
And puking in tandem all over their house
Living off generous dying folk
Feb 11, 2010
Feb 11, 2010 at 4:02 PM UTC
Buttercups running aloof
in mi cluttered mind
of discomfort
Leaflets flapping
as the world turns
mournfully
on its side
Turnstiles of my life
flipping through
the pages of time
and all i can see is
misery
Flowers cresting
in the space they’re
allowed
hoping for the light
the rain...
the time-
Memories wafting
by the impulse of wind
billowing, bellowing
the new season
begins
yet all i can see is the
scenery of despair
Tormented tides
slapping upside mi head
drowning mi tears
as if i were dead
Wandering dreams
of days future past
i’m trying mi damndest
to make mi life
l...a...s...t...
But all i can see
is languishing fear
******** and moaning
not seeing the light
Aug 20, 2010
Aug 20, 2010 at 3:50 AM UTC
Another haunt is arriving, feverishly fast tonight.
Somehow I managed to delay the feeling, briefly,
as it usually takes the manageable Subway and begins to fester around high noon, but today I skipped lunch,
and the feeling didn't go underground for her mode of transport.
"Maybe I hit the lotto?", I secretly questioned,
and the haunt would forget her requiem, passing over me
like those lucky "Kennedy Husbands" during the sixties' draft.
But I was getting divorced while all the other couples
were on a faster track heading in the opposite direction.
Tonight the haunt is traveling 248 mph,
on the Fùxīng ** bullet train from Beijing to Shanghai, en route to Vietnam.
The conductor yelled, "All Aboard."
and as if that period denoted a punctual mark,
everyone manically crammed into the narrow vehicle.
The first influx of lovely passengers to board were,
Missus Anxiety, Sir Prior Transgressions and Dr. Heartache.
Unlike Dr. Feelgood,
They had been waiting in line from the previous night,
like those idiots for last week’s black Friday sale.
Mr. and Mrs. Payments Past Due cut in front of
Bills Esquire and Judge Job Insecurity,
for the Belmont Superfecta win, I guessed the right horses, just didn’t box my bet.
Congressman Careless and Deputy ******* nearly trampled Senator Surrender on the way through the turnstiles,
while Mayor Moan was flagged by security for groaning
and pulled aside for a pat down and wheelchair inspection.
The Mayor was found to have ******* residue on his sleeve, but legitimate prescriptions for his aches and pains,
so TSA
wheeled him through the crack rocks
Analog veins pump analog blood to my analog heart;
traveling for the journey and not its hasty destination.
My analog heart will eventually be shelved,
as it still salutes the Subway on its journey to my soul,
but like dusting off an old Coen Brothers flick,
my analog heart is still entertaining its vintage tick.
Nov 27, 2017
Nov 27, 2017 at 9:23 PM UTC
Maktub saw the light at the end of his tunnel
It approached him with a barbaric screech
Doppler shifting to piercing, painful pitch
On the wrong side of tracks he watched the train charge past
In his new freedom, he explored the station
Wandering through the grimy halls by
Too-busy roaches scurrying from the bright
A burpy crumple lump sat propped against the wall
Reeking of sick and
Filth and dead liver
Maktub bought him a sandwich
And left it on his lap, with a dead president
On whose face he had jotted a blotted
Don’t drink me
The *** woke to this, and
Bless you friend, jaundiced beam
Bless you back, sir
Restored faith in (chances) chances
Some teens whizzed unpaying under turnstiles
On rolling boards, lying on their backs and holding bags
Maktub found them clever and pursued
In a secluded spot they made aerosol spray mural
Mischievous hands intricately crafted as cans blasted
Through their mist emerged a mighty orb of life
And in blackness round twinkled possible worlds
He admired their vandalism; art is everywhere, he thought
At sound of step the mural makers
Dashed, leaving colors and can
Maktub raised it, unfamiliar, and finished the wall with
We are one
Returning to his platform, he saw that more had gathered
And a strumming bard, milk eyed, fluttered notes with dancer’s grace
Her voice sent shivers down his spine and lifted him in spirals
I would recognize the
Song of God, he thought (and I know where he is)
The screeching came again, and Maktub
Leaned to watch, eager for his light
His train had come to take him home
He was calm
He was ready
May 16, 2012
May 16, 2012 at 10:13 AM UTC
The census is a gun
and every ten years for a bit of fun
someone
pulls the trigger.
The body count gets bigger all the time because once a decade's far from fine,we all know that we want a little more
but just who is keeping tabs on us and what's the score?
If you're more than willing to fill in and tick the boxes one by one
we'll carry on the same and be just a figure getting bigger
reviewed by counters
mounted in the book
and taken down
looked and read
underlining, numbered in red ink and thumbed,fed into ,computerised until algorithms
drip from and dot the eyes with postscripts slipped upon the page which mention dates of birth and gender
this is the age of the want to know
and we're being counted
like sheep we go through turnstiles,smiling,clicking,sickening in the need to feed the ever growing need for information,technology will be the death of me and in a census yet to come
or when my numbers up
I will be done
shot full of holes the census gun is indiscriminate but there's no fun or sense in that,they'll tamper with the workings,lay them flat and reassemble parts until we're part of some vast assembly
in a Wembley stadium,the gun's the game
we'll be numbered until the final whistle blows and someone goes to tally up the score
and in the counting they'll count more and more
as if in some final lunacy
the lunatic accountants see there's numbers coming out of their ears
and say,
'thank God it's only once every ten years'
Data will as data does and do
and who would count the countless where the few are many and any mistake means you have to start again.
Censuses
another pain and millions more
and someone will come knocking on your door to give you forms and envelopes
all hope's lost
so be counted and don't count the cost
let the ones who get paid for this
kiss their sanity
goodbye.
Jul 7, 2013
Jul 7, 2013 at 11:38 PM UTC
From across the hall, I watched her double
over Coleridge, sympathizing as she looked
up to the thin curtain filtering the street-light
universe past the pane held in hot glue.
The click-heels, car barks, ceaseless L-Train
turnstiles, tipsy choirs in cracked-door taverns,
hinges, keys on carabiners, bus hydraulics,
the wall clock, and her fingers caressing the page.
She loved a soft wind carrying birdsong
through screen doors and dowel chimes.
She used to leave her shoes lace-tangled
by the key rack until she saw glass pollen
sparkling in a caged tulip blossom.
She raised the book and sullenly whispered
the last stanza of Frost at Midnight
into the spine, wondering how anyone
could live away from impressionist-dandelion
forests, children's plastic toys in the front yard,
and church bells at every hour.
I wondered the same thing.
May 11, 2015
May 11, 2015 at 4:01 PM UTC
twisted tines of silken thread
turn truistic vines of dread
into total truisms that fed
on tectonic overtures
turnstiles of treacle thin
ties, that tickle skin
and whisper tactile lies
turn tiny faces to taciturn skies
Tiptoe across a threadbare rug
tiny traces kiss treads remembrance
Touching histories of true memories
Tugging threads tight in a trance
Nov 12, 2013
Nov 12, 2013 at 2:52 AM UTC
In 2020 we are the motors of the mechanics we drive
in the bed
of other work days
as the bees fly less
and
the drive of somersaulting mad men, calmer
than a pool of iced days off
after the pool boy
cleans up
start screaming,
although it’s universal when you rise, and my limbs burst
through these elsewhere tossed things, and elsewhere bones
that have no succor in the middle of the sun’s dance, as if:
naïve butchers in the street are sleeping on the bus and
there is no answer from the ricochet dream apart from
keep your **** together
keep your **** together…
and the world is well travelled when you’re smoking beside a dog
and the obliterated silence of a room has a voice,
but the turnstiles open when the poem begins, ah!
the weekend again-this, envelope of random orchids that rustle
and
open,
in the haven of a ***** flat where we find the best corona jokes
new cities
these shaking palms
the way the world works better at 10 am
and the humour of a crazy snake, checking KPIs
again,
and when i wake
i will love this zero
hour
contract
more,
i will worship you and say
yes
yes
YES!
Mar 6, 2020
Mar 6, 2020 at 11:47 PM UTC
You waited for Fay
by the entrance
of the outdoor
swimming pool
in Bedlam Park
the Saturday afternoon sun
still strong
the voices and screams
of the kids in the pool
coming through
the high hedge
that surrounded all
around except where
the entrance was
with its turnstiles
and changing rooms
and wire boxes
where kids
kept their clothes
Pete Badham and his cronies
had gone by and in
a few minutes before
giving you the hard stare
which you returned
with equal share
you wondered if Fay’s father
had stopped her going
finding some passage
in the Bible that he claimed
made it a sin
or maybe she had been kept in
for some misdemeanour
but then you saw her
coming through the park
in a blue dress
with a white towel
wrapped under an arm
thought you might not come
you said as she came
to the entrance
Mum let me come
after Daddy’d gone
off to work
she said
she opened a hand
to show the coins
held there
her eyes you noticed
were red
as if she’d been crying
glad you’re here
you said
me too
she replied
and you both went in
each to the separate areas
for boys and girls
once you had changed
and put your clothes
in the wire box
you went out
to the pool
and dived in
the cool water
and waited for Fay
to come in
Dave Walker was there
at the deep end
keeping an eye
on Badham and his cronies
giving you the thumbs up
when Fay came out
she stood hesitant
on the edge
of the pool
dressed in her black
swimming costume
come on in
you called and waved
she climbed down
into the water
and swam towards you
her fair hair
darkened by the water
her legs flapping
behind her
as she swam
her hands pushing through
the water’s skin
as she came to you
she put her arms
around your neck
her damp face
close to yours
you put your arms
around her waist
and she winced
and you let go
what’s up?
you asked
nothing
she said
just a bruise
and she swam off
to the edge of the pool
and you followed her
and she pulled herself
onto the edge
and sat there
looking out
at the other kids swimming
you heaved yourself
onto the edge of the pool
beside her
she looked away
towards the high hedge
and you noticed
thin red marks
on her thigh
what’s that?
you asked
pointing to her thigh
sign I have sinned
she whispered
Daddy said
to show the flesh
is a sin
and wouldn’t let me come
and I answered him back
and he made the mark of
me having sinned
she stared at you
and touched your hand
say nothing to anyone
she said
promise?
ok
you said
let’s go swim
she said
and dived in again
you seeing
the red marks
and sensing the pain.
Aug 30, 2012
Aug 30, 2012 at 3:19 PM UTC
Moonbeams drip from her fingertips
Ice cascades around her hips,
She's ancient fjord,
A dark and cavernous mind,
Little elemental sprite.
Child of the night
Whose blossoms only bloom
Under the blackened out moon.
Sister of delight, you dear,
Your turnstiles let in too many I fear.
Her wings wither away,
This Queen of the Fey,
Goddess of wanting and waiting
With sanity slowly dissipating.
Can't stop disintegrating,
Stolen upstream up by the clouds,
Swept with self-doubt.
A heart left in shambles,
Some broken pieces scattered across the floor,
She uses her king as the bits of glue in between,
And though he doesn't quite understand
Just how much one would give
To replace the position in which he stands.
Beautiful Disaster; what everybody's after.
And no you can't have her, hold her or save her,
She's a wild thing,
You probably haven't the wits to properly embrace her.
Jan 7, 2014
Jan 7, 2014 at 12:38 PM UTC
Leave me my rituals
The flesh is an ocean.
The truths are all doorways
As lust is emotion.
The tie-knots are leakers
As passive in search.
My motives are pullers
Leaving me hung in the lurch.
Test me on turnstiles.
Work me on pleads.
I drift only daily.
I want only needs.
Keep safe Your distance.
And I'll keep all my words.
You laid me for power.
And left me for cursed.
Dec 26, 2010
Dec 26, 2010 at 10:14 PM UTC
Down there in Knightsbridge where the dead rich rub shoulders with the dirt poor and the older I get,the more down there I am.
And I go bummin' around,around old Strutton ground and even with New Scotland yard on the doorstep it's hard to feel safe, and so I shave off a minute or two of my breakfast, so I can get through the turnstiles at the station (though they call them barriers now) they're no barrier for me,I like to travel far and free.
But I'm lost in this city where the people don't see me,don't talk,they disturb me,it's like living in a cemetery among the dead and the disinterred and I am disturbed by the lack of affection that's shown by some sections of society.
I am the cream of the crop and once was the best of the best that this country had got but then I turned sour
and every hour that passes,every hourglass amasses more ammunition to fire at me..and stupidly so stupidly I insist I am free.
Someone is failing me and I should be sailing someplace where I could be free but I'm rubbing shoulders down in Knightsbridge and getting older every day.
Jan 23, 2014
Jan 23, 2014 at 3:56 AM UTC
Excitement burbled among the masses
As they crushed through the turnstiles
In their off-the-rack jerseys and faded caps.
Pewter clouds teared, tarp blanketed the field,
Not a single pitch was thrown out on this semi-religious holiday.
But fans' spirits were hardly dampened by the rain delay.
The game would be played later,
And something had changed in the air.
Win or lose,
Cowhide slapped into leather.
The odor of sausages wafted off the grill.
Bats cracked hopefully,
Electricity crackled through the bleachers.
That old ballpark magic
Conjured enough ambiance
To swallow a lazy summer whole.
Apr 4, 2017
Apr 4, 2017 at 2:40 AM UTC
Turnstiles tick
with the constancy of clock hands,
while I try to calculate the depth of a second
waiting and wondering
if you'll ever again grace me
with your presence.
May 20, 2015
May 20, 2015 at 9:36 PM UTC
I avoid pathways that lead directly to my heart
Because they're worn and tattered
Form abuse and neglect
So I quarantined the questions
That lead as turnstiles to these halls
The trust I had to polish these walls
Left with the old management
And therefore I henceforth forsake them
They only lead now to disaster and ruin
Devastation and a poisonous plague
To the rest of my mind
Because the doors were always open
To those who needed it most
They in return used up and defaced
Leaving when I needed them most
Apr 27, 2017
Apr 27, 2017 at 11:53 PM UTC
You're scared. Something about me arouses the forgotten ashes. The ones that have been spread far and wide in the back of your mind. I can tell that your involvement with me lights up parts of your brain that sends an SOS signal to your entire core. There's something within me that doesn't allow you to function how you'd like too. I'm skipping turnstiles and playing musical chairs in your brain, lighting up familiar triggers you can't quite figure. That's why you act like a relucilant adolescent, who only knows complications. You're not really complicated, you're stubborn. That's why your kisses are limited. Your touch is always as distant as possible. Reluctant at times. There's parts of me you're too afraid to touch, to maraud. Your lack of receptiveness completely turns me off. Makes me want to runaway without a say. Yet I know it'd be far more better if I played with fire and ignited a fire from your cupid's bow to your toes. Cease a fire across your body that you cannot calm. A fire that would consume your entirety. Devour your being. One that sparks your soul. & with my bare hands seed a soil that's been in need of loving. I have a fire match ready for you, hand delivered by a cherub. Let us consumate a taboo, you say when. Quickly I'll slide my thumb down the side of your lip, with my index finger adjacent to your top lip, cupping my fingers in, I'll pour in you the sweetest gasoline. Within you I'll ignite the parts you've neglected so much. Within you, they'll be a big bang, it'll be where our new love began.
Oct 22, 2019
Oct 22, 2019 at 12:25 AM UTC
Timeless Turnstile
Beginning as one united coming or going using a single door
Plans playing out always solved with little doubt
Plenty of passion divided equally, the other familiar face means most issues a minor chore
Another figure adds more rigor as households grow, extra weight not too great, remaining attached to the commitment still devout
Singles slowly separating, unknowing we stop growing, once common ground becoming a hidden topic to explore
Day to day we still play but with an ever-increasing price to pay, going from a one-way slow lane into a faster double roundabout
Finding a meeting place on middle ground harder and harder to be found, passion lost viewing another with a blink or nod makes them easier to ignore
Knowing this ceaseless hurry is ending our relationship in a flurry, finding times balance will repair romance no longer lost under times shroud R.C.
Mar 11, 2022
Mar 11, 2022 at 8:49 AM UTC
There's the wait,
That constant ache,
Moving forward through
The gate,
Your hand in mine,
Let time unwind,
As long as I'm with you
All that's left is the climb--
Up the steps, one by one,
Screams are heard,
the nerves have begun--
But you look at me
and squeeze my hand
I'll try not to make you have
to catch me
Because with that look--
I can barely stand.
You liquefy my core
and it radiates like
the waves of screams
like the parabolas
All stuck together
Laid with track
It's our turn soon.
The turnstiles whir
My stomach stirs,
We both have palms
slick with sweat
But we're here.
We're on this adventure
Together.
So our held hands
Lead us past the back,
Past the middle,
The front seats.
The very front seats.
The first to fall.
And we sit.
And I lean into you
with tears in my eyes
from fear and excitement
and feverish, crazy love
and those clicks start
and the carts budge
Forward
And Forward Again.
And by the time we're
At
The
Top---
There is this feeling of teetering
On the
Edge
Of the Abyss
And you're staring at the only
THING
You can stare at and it isn't
DOWN
It's each other. It's
taking solace
in the ultimate fact
that even in our fear
attempting to face it
Together
we're impenetrable.
Our screams
Are of joy
and excitement
and love
and adventure
and life.
And then it rolls
to a stop,
The air break hiss,
looking at each other
with smirks
and knowing
we're getting
Right back in that **** line
and Going Again.
Mar 29, 2025
Mar 29, 2025 at 2:27 AM UTC
I thought about death and religion last night,
but not for too long, because both are a bit
spooky, with apocalyptic visions of the abyss
and all the other eschatological stuff
that makes me downright dizzy.
Not to mention all the pandemonium
involved in prophets, punishment and the
tricky process of getting
my ticket for admission through
the turnstiles of the Pearly Gates.
I really don’t like those ticket sellers and their
conflicting claims of heaven and everlasting pain.
Nope, I’d rather think of temporal things
like children, friendship love and creativity.
Oh yes, *** too, and everything else profane.
I’m a bit of a ruffian, really, maybe even
Rabelaisian. Pleasure, laughter, loving.
That’s it.
This is my refrain.
Mike T Minehan
Dec 23, 2020
Dec 23, 2020 at 3:05 PM UTC