Hips made of smoke.

Smoke lingers
and curls like the ghost of
a belly dancer.

Black operation.

Why are you standing at the foot of the lamppost in black pin striped three piece suit, yet you are a teenage boy? It is winter. Bitter frost hangs the night. You trail short breaths of dragon smoke. What are you waiting on? Your hair is lacquered with gel, and glistens under the wake of yellow light. You stand up right, in sentry; pale smooth white skin, bright amber iris's rimming jet black pupils, chiseled jaw, and straight warm red lips.

You hold a black Oak stick with a silver regal brass knob, by your right hand; tap it, once, twice, three times, upon the cold pavement. You lift your head to the sky, which is cloudless and perfect in jet black, vast stars illuminate like the frost upon the pavement, reflected by lamplight. You smooth your lapels with your left hand. You lift your left arm quickly, toward your face, to read the time. What is waiting for you?

You are waiting, that is sure. Fluorescent light shivers above, in brief threat from the lamp, you look up, searching. The street is silent. You must be very cold. Yet there is no impatience in your manner. You seem, precise. Prepaired. Deliberate. Clandestine. Then, suddenly, like the black bird startled, you turn head to the right, look off into the darkness; some sound? A call? It is impossible to know. You take three strides until you are outside the perimeter of the lamp glow, untraceable and sealed by the pitch dark of midnight.

The big gay cliche.

'Sexuality is not the centre of the self' - McGuire.

Let's get one thing straight, I'm not. - Bumper sticker

Men loving men.
Anal invaders.
Sex pests.

Promiscuous Devils.
Seducers.
Opportunists.

Obligatory effeminate,
ball bursting touchy feely
perfumed sons of Adam.

Burning sodomites.
Sensitive assholes.
Pink as tongues.

Girly, limp wrist
cock sucking
bell boys.

Word politics.

Words -
sent out on up the line
to face the firing squad
as I sit back and idle.

The tomato and the tortoise.

To be young takes a very long time - Picasso.

We are going on the 89 bus with Misses Proudfoot and Ms. Lilly. They are the bestest teachers in any mile. I think a mile is a long way to walk without an s at the end of it. Ms. Lilly said that I am a clever boy to say such a thing, and both ends of her mouth got bigger, like she was opening a flower, although the flower was her smile. We are standing outside play school in weather of not-to-warm-sun but quite-bright-yellow, and the wind is sharp, like the edge of an ice cube on your face, but not as cold as the need for an Eskimo.

Me, Harry, Lydia, Jackamo, Joyce, Steven, Ted and Jackie, and Linda, with lemon hair, all are waiting, on tender foot excitement for the bus. We stamp up and down, and point at the sky like it's a person. The bus arrives. Bright red. Like an apple or a tomato. A tomato tastes wet. An apple tastes sweet. I tell Mrs Proudfoot: 'We are going inside, to sit inside an apple or a tomato, Ms!' and she frowns in a way that meant she was happy, but said the word precocious, which, I think is a type of food, but I have never eated it.

Jackamo, said to me, an apple is a circle and a bus is a square. And I said that a square is only a circle with edges. And he said, maybe. Jackie, is humming a song, not paying attention to the fact we are walking up the stairs, maybe because she wears glasses. Me and Harry sit at the front window, Jackamo and Ted, sit on the other side, and all four of us drive together, looking out and looking in. What an amazing tomato to drive in. And everyone agreed. Some were practicing singing to themselves or talking inside their heads. Many were actually talking about the naughtiness of fights or how they disliked cucumber in the sandwiches, cause it was like a piece of your clothes had been put in the freezer and then put in your sandwich, and I hate eating clothes, though I sometimes suck of my sleeve. So does Lydia. So does Ms Lilly.

We are going to the science centre, because that's were the world works. Then Joyce said my thought – we are driving an apple. Steven said – no, a tomato bus. Linda said – a strawbeery bus. Harry said a potato, and everyone went silent for a second, and laughed, because potatos are the colour of skin, not buses. Mrs Proudfoot was talking about men who give orders, and Misses Lilly was listening with head nodding attention. We didn't understand. We turned the corner and there was a bridge and we went under the bridge, and Jackamo shouted – 'It's night time!' then we came into the light and Jackamo shouted – 'It's day time.' It was the quickest day. We wanted to go back and forth under the bridge so we could have more than 10 days in one day. Jackie couldn't count to ten so she could only have eight days, but we said would wait for her, in the other two days. But the tomato kept on going, and we tried to eat the inside of the tomato, but it was no use. You can only eat an apple from the outside in, so we would have to wait until we got out.

We are the seeds inside the tomato, Misses Lilly said. We might be the seeds inside the tomato. Perhaps the seats are the seeds. And someone said, we could be the green of the strawberry, but that confused me and anyone. And the science centre was bigger than a house, said Misses Lilly, and bigger than the school, and bigger than five schools ,and I couldn't imagine five schools, and wondered how they could fit a science centre inside a world or even inside a mile. A mile is a long way to walk, Mrs Proudfoot taught us this morning. She said, a mile is further than from my front door to the play school. And my Dad drives me to the school, and we were on a bus, so I think she was right.

Linda said science centre was huge, like a machine, that could eat us. The the doors were actually mouths into its belly. I said, I was scared of the idea, but not of the doors, and she held my hand, and said that if it was actually a monster, she might ask Misses Lilly if she could go home; but I told her, I would go inside the mouth first and check if it was OK, if it was, I would come back out and tell her; and Linda said thank you and smiled- which makes your mouth bigger - and this made me smile too. 'Nearly there everyone.' Misses Proudfoot said, and we all jumped up and got excited and wrung our hands like they were on fire. And Jackamo messed up his hair and laughed because he couldn't do anything else. And Jackie sang out: 'We're driving a tomato, in the apple core, we're all going to grow inside an apple of tomato.' Every said, yes! YES! In a hiss of joy. And, the building came into view – we could see it – it was like a giant shell, like a tortoise, which is very slow and old, like an old man; so me and Linda thought, tortoise aren't monsters, they are very nice and take their time and are old men who are gentle. And we sighed like something bad had been avoided for something gooder. Much gooder. And we couldn't wait to understand how science had invented the world.

We were going to understand science, the place were they made the world. Misses Proudfoot said science was about being sensible, and testing things, and I said, like putting your finger into water to see if it was OK to put in all the hand, and she said, yes. Science is like that. And everyone was like yes, science is amazing, it's like lovely, an old slow man, who wouldn't run away but let us play with the toys he had made. And we decided (me Harry Lydia, Jackamo, Joyce, Steven, Ted and Jackie, and Linda, with lemon hair, Mrs Proudfoot and Misses Lilly), to hold hands and shut our eyes, and love each other while we held them shut, and then go through into science, and open them.

(Editing to be done.)

A poetry sleep in.

The soul is a wild boar - McGuire.

Falling asleep listening to the dull poets
read their dull poems in the land of soul.
Writhing in stuffy halls on hard uncomfortable chairs.
Reluctant audiences exhaust the coffee machine,
stew over stiff silence as one soul is about to
read the last line from a five page epic.
All preparing for perfunctory applause.
This is where poetry comes to die.

Dance us to the edge of love.

It is of course possible to dance a prayer. ~Glade Byron Addams

The desire for love, and to be loved - no idol more hollow - McGuire.

The Bounce man! ...canny beat the Arches ona Friday. Few joints. Coupla sweggers. Botill o voddy before yee go in = holy trinity. Fires yee up fir the dansin. Wee nervous inferno in yir stomach. Heart attack excitement. Love it man, buzzin, everyone buzzin thegither. sub woofer vibrating the through wallz. Music solidifying the sense of the orgy. Everyone comin the tigether, no fir work or confessin, but fir movement in the primal church. Floor tae yir self, floor fir the crowd, brainwashed by techno. the body wan muscle, riding the surf. Endorphins spumes rushin up the spinal like a burst of sherbert powder. Body tingling, like a set o Christmas lights. The bass thudding, four heart valves, pulsin through the marathon. A sea of white noise covering the air like a sheet o metal. Intuitive endolphins swimming the blood stream. All of us - a stampede - . all feeling the false love for five hours. Dancing agents wae ur own secret love agenda. Gandhi style. Lie doon or danc the foolhard happy marathon;a joy to be walked over or ran over by anyone good soul. This shit could kill armies man, kill them in oceans of serotonin, melt thum tae a smile, melt the bullets tae tiny tablets, make a good joke o manufacturers o conflict. Caught in spontaneous earth - nay danger o war here - every one puts down their defences and lifts up their arms..

3000 souls under one roof. Electirc orchestra of lazers. Hours of chemical dancin' under the false flag of love, but a sense of the love of what could be, if we pulled apart the curtains o our thoughts, brought aw private trouble intae open. Could stop wars a bet. Wars man. Pull down the secret wars. Deframgment yir mind, so comes the empathy, that comes way honesty. A chemical neutrality. A false neutrality, but it lends sense, to the sense, of what could be, if society wiz all aboot pulling secrets through the holes in the wall, then pulling down the walls themselves. Approach calmly – all of us - dancing our prayers. Hypnosis o the crowd, aw stunned to by each uther; hugging stranger prayers. Aw lost tae each other but, really. Selfless then selfish again in that order. Agony aunts and uncles, momentary brothers and minute sisters. spontaneous families, extended, but a false extended family, nothing but strangers, yet a sense of the family that could be, if all our secrets had been outed and dressed and calmly approached.

Tell yir joy. Tend to yir woe. The syncopated heart beat unifies us aw - artificial sweetener. We are experimenters, an unsound experiment, to get a sense of what it might be like, if we pulled down the walls, all the cells, all the unutterables, and no strangers. It's all about how you react to the experience put before you. It's aw about what it could be like if we were all strong enough to handle our shadow alone in the dark. Boucin man, boucin, I'm naw going tay sleep, I'm up all weekend, I' m here tay butter up love and in touch the telekinetic delusion of our all love together in the orgy of our excess. knock back shadows and sing through the hardcore of the mountains o trauma. Brilliant man everycunt smiling through the seritonin, happy happy, breaking doon aw the fuck barriers, burstin through all the lies o the past, the formalities of the present, and the terror o the future. Music will solve aw the problems o the world yet. With only two arms we canny solve much, save affection maybe. But this is it, rioting into the night, the morning, past candid rants of seritonin, putting the world to loving right - waiting for the sunrise to shine on our false junk utopia. Wish I didnay have tae always be here on ma own but.

(Work to be done. It's riddled with mess, but I'm mopping it up as I go.)

Guy Fawkes Night (a chorus of crazed baby chicks)

What radicals you are blowing up in suburban streets.
Startling the solemn households from their quiet Sunday
breathing, lighting up thousands of tiny troops of Civil War.

Anarchy! Streets run amok!

In flocks you burst and scream, a chorus of crazed baby
chicks being strangled, a thousand wild light bulbs sent up
into the air fusing,
  exploding
bouquets of flowers, flying out
like burning feathers.

You fizz and whistle like sparks of fat.
Breaking the rude silence of safe
towns, reminding us of a war
    just
     round
      the corner, or
to shut the curtains, lock the door, and always
blow out candles.

Greater Glasgow Health Board.

Excerpt from short stories 'Greater Glasgow Health Board: 'Whit Aldo seen the uther day.'

walkin alang suachiehall street wae JoJo. standin outside burger king wiz big willy the junky. Fae doon my street. He wiz hammered. Sawzild. Jitterin on the spot in his blue and white tracky. staggering forward then fallen back. Forward and back. His heed was dripping doon like he wiz fallen asleep, and his legs buckled doon then sprang back up. like he wiz about tae giv way. Thing is, it wiz a busy Saturday efternoon, you cud hear bagpipes buzzin in the distans, and folk oot way thur weans shoppin. Willy has weans as well you know. Imagine that? Yir da, a grown man, a junky, humiliatin himself in the centre. They aw gawked at him like walking by a shite exhibit. Total disgust. Weans thinkin it wiz funny as fuck. Thinkin he thought he wiz probly still in his living room. Poor bastard should be on the methadone or electro-shock. His weans are in care. Cause his wifes a junky, too. bet he wiz just daein a wee dance, so he could cadge some money for a burger. Scum, man.

then the uther day, you wont fuckin believe this, wiz fucking brilliant. a wiz walkin alang the road, as yee day, and I kid hear this junky cow moanin. and guess whit. She hud her hand and a wee bit o er arm stuck in the fuckin postboax. haha! Belter man. She wiz out the game as well, lollin about on the spot. like a dog on its leash. jag bag burd. she was gibberin. probobly trying her luck at bumpin some of the letters in the post hopin tae find a bit of doe. Missed her giro. But I just stood wae Jamie and tam laughin right at her. hahahaha! she was a fuckin disgrace. She wiz makin no sense, spangled oot her mind, moanin like she had downs or sumting. she started saying 'fuck off, fuck off.....naaw! gonnae help us.fuck off, fuck off! naw gonnay help us.' we jist kept laughin then Alsay got his phone oot and filmed it. we just kept pissing our selves and then walked away. and we watched the video. Gonny put it oan youtube. Funny as fuck! Glasgow is a fuckin whole man. Rats man, should aw be put doon. Fuckin love it.