On Considering Buddha While Pissing

Buddha, decapitated and neatly mantled
peers frozenly at my navel.

Two years to notice the absurdity
of which she likes to call decor.

Take Christ, who with open arms
is nailed upon a canvas and hung above our bed.

Or what of Elvis, face smeared with grease-
spat bacon fat. He appears happy posing

at the photo clad fridge. Even death has
its place on the shelf, door-stopping the books.

Each new year’s eve a single cigarette and
a thimbleful of red wine we leave-

and come morning, untouched we acknowledge
absence, discarding it with dry tears.

Yet Che remains exiled in the dark lands of
the attic, considered irrelevant by my love-

While Buddha remains, observing the path of my piss.
 

* Vincent Turner lives in South East London, he is the father of two young boys and is a drug and alcohol worker. Vincent has recently had his first chapbook Envying Harry published by Erbacce Press. Vincent's work as featured in undergroundvoices, readthismagazine, Full of Crow, Shootsandvines and the others he has forgot.