Poetry by Turnus Jones

And so what is there to say…? I could have said more but shall not,
or will not…After a week of bright sunshine,
now that all is over here come the rains, hard
and wintry
and cold, sharp and silver and mean, as My Brother
half jokingly, 
though Romanticism is in our 
blood, the sun was out and high and spring like as saw a
nest of Robins and a little rabbit no less comes
close to the house,
showing a level of 
wonderlands Oviddian fairy
tales that my mother 
was sure that #metoo and
 Disney would never
wipe away.
She was amused and glad her patria 
told those stregeas to beat it, 
when they actually
came to Italay,
think of the brazenness of invisible balls,
 demanding valediction they'd approve if,
even down to making the ancient tongue of mother Italay
removed the masculine and 
feminine aspects of verbs and of words,
we drown in insignificance 
and silliness now that
Meatheads have become alter boys at the
perpetual Bush funeral,
as doing Mach the knife once better, it has become
a wake of rancid food.
These old cows, so willing to
be more
outraged by a Hunter than a drone,
of theaters of war and girls of
the campaina,
these hags of war, these
bitches who cry for
Alslan more than the Minervas
of Roman walls,
 a language always hated,
my father warned of, that
 as placers advised him to
Speak American once,
dear Jewish inlaws, a linqua that go back to
Dante clutching onto Virgil; 
his unrequited love of the maid a break the ages of Barbarian Ice.
Thank god you're not 
imperialists as you wish to White Wash
a language like most you
cant even care to speak. 
My brother sharper than I, 
is glad to see a church
 of bean counters fall asunder,
as it must 
having been cleaved by Luther,
as barbarian as you can get.
He was happy to see the 
mezzageirno sun
as allowing Ma to rise up towards the apostolic sun,
 that Ovid said all religion is based upon to begin with.
And as Ma left, at night, there was fellow Calabrian
 Robert Blake, in mid angers and distempers that delighted
 erudite Johnny no end, as twas doing battle with NBC Jew hack Tartikoff,
 to Johnny’s empathetic theocratic glee.
And amazingly, Robert, though seen as a thug,
to Johnnys joy, he quoted Cyrano, of all people, as we Italians
aren’t as vulgar as you'd so like, as Sciascia said in 'Mafia', a film stolen shake for shake by Coppola, what wasn’t,….?,
Leaving Regium means 
Italia has been left behind.
In the dream I saw the tall
lithe classical woman,
a woman with the gate of a goddess,
as she must have been in Italy, and a lover of Coco
 as she was,
 with her cola black hair you know pretend to love,
gee haven't seen a nice and easy commercial since
the wife of a rapist
 failed to win her
Cesarean big brass ring yet again, and good luck,
I must pity down,
Greg Craig, as wouldn't it be funny after a lifetime of hunting bunnies
 and picking locks with
your piggish master,
you'd get into trouble for being too close, as any lover of Catiline
 Worth their salt could have warned you,
for heightening to close to her wicked dreams and
her disquieting
needs, and too close to the wife who by now
 really should
have been thrown into the Tyber if anyone had
a sense of drama at all.
She walked aways from me on this broken
marble stage,
away towards the bright Vulcan light of home,
aways interestingly from the half night and the Orion and
 Aquarius that shone over weathered signs,
as Wendy watched her go back
outwards a highway on which a sign read ESSO,
as it did when she drive me around as a little boy.
She teared up this year,
when you lesbians cried because a rapist couldn't live out
his Lady bird dreams,
ouch have we fallen far since Galen memorized as a boy,
as i showed Ma the
have the certificate that a picture of Wendy
as American Venus
is hanging,
in crayon and kiddie constriction paper,
in a Roman art salon
 as my ma would say, satisfaction and making
pompous pronouncements in art, genre itself in fact, may be just
for Lutherans
and women who don't have husbands.
And he, a roman angel there
 with beloved Carson, our in cold blood puck
whom was thrashed
by that new York Jewish rag as would be Tennessee,
Gore , Truman and Orson, you're in good company
Donald, there was
Tony Barretta, the  Calbarian
 jester centurion, the way 
television used to be, before 
your viking adorning
games of iron thrones,
taken as as much as anything from Numa's throne of collected
spears of his enemies,
yes, sorry that in Livy, why like Alan Moore, your English wizards
leave Minerva loving me cold, as throne, but again
without the Roman and
the Italian, well, lets say, like the Clintons
you're not enough.
The Italian killer clown,
half senator, half harlequin,
Roman boy,cut throat man, Copper thief,
quotes the French poet
 as vulgar and as scandalous 
as anyone whoever wrote,
despite any thing you know of him. And like his quote
of the swords man was apt 
and as he asked in always mid-
 implosion, my ma thought
i was much like him when i wasn't a bitch sissy walking away from
long legged gals waiting for a bus,
he asks the witty and at wits  ends man, true, do
 I anger the great prince Tartikoff
at the sandstone palace,
as I had an anti SCORSESE tale called The life of Brutus,
censored before anyone else thought theyd be at the at the vineyards 
of a gangster movie maker…but like he said, 
I am left standing, not so much tall, 
but at least alone. 

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