A sentimental Glaswegian flower.

I have slept in secret for most of my life
with a sentimental flower pressed against my chest
always growing, but hidden, hidden in sleep and waiting...on fire!

thunder roars tonight

thunder roars tonight
sky is carpet thick
with grey cloud like the ash
from fired canon, and thunder
the roar of the canon!

rain sluices down, you can hear
millions of little rain drops,
their tiny feet patter onto the ground
and as they hit the ground they run
down the street into the gutter
down into the sewer: into the belly
of the earth, where they swim and drown.

the sky roars and delicate ladies jump,
in leather chairs husbands whince and
Glasgow is flooded with blizzards of rain,
and cars slow turn on windscreen wipers
so they can see clearer.

and the rain sluices down, you can hear
the millions of little rain drops their tiny feet
pattering onto the ground and as they hit
the ground they run down the street
into the gutter down into the sewer:
into they belly of the earth,
where they swim and drown.

the sky roars, and delicate ladies jump
in leather chairs, husbands whince and
Glasgow is flooded with blizzards of rain,
and cars slow down turn on windscreen wipers
so they can see clearer.

the Christian neighbours across the street
look out of their window, up to the sky,
I too, look out of the window, up to the sky!

I think of the ionosphere, of HAARP,
of the beauty of the thunder,
whips and forks and cracks of light,
like an orchestra:think of it!

the clouds slide over head
clicking in perfectly
then the rain pelts down
then lightning cracks and whips,
rumbles, as it a button had been pressed ,
and everything came together.
coordination working the mechanism
with the world.

and i lift up my arms and
wish for all hell to break
loose, for the thunder
to Sing at the top of its
roar! more thunder!! more
canon! for landslides!
for floods, for torrents of spin,
for soakings sake!

and the Christian neighbours look out
and think the rain is God
or at least, the rain of God,
and I think it is the urine of God
and the lightening strikes
like a camera flash!
perhaps God is taking photographs
of his children because he has
grown sentimental!

the sky rumbles and churns
like a giant greedy belly,
like someone moving a huge
chariot in the sky!

and the rain pisses upon
the land watering the land
soaking the city!
and many shut their windows,
rub their hands together,
close curtains, boil the kettle
with scottish water and watch the
television!

but i step out into the rain,
animal for the rain,
loving the great beast of
the weather.

then i go indoors
and pour myself
a glass of water
and drink it rapidly
in one gulp!

22 June 2007

Beached Whale

(For kev, with respect)

so he lay on the couch
beach whaled
harpooned by dope
too much vodka
his brain a theatre of smoke
his life already a stupid addiction
he worked like a trojan horse
he played out his weekend like
a demolition, a destructive fire

he didn't give a fuck.
having money
and time
and health - for now.

he just kept up the great game
the great intoxication
pissing it all up against the wall
living comfortably
comfortably neurotic

am i too fat?
i'm getting fat!
look at the stretch marks!
i haven't eaten in three days

you just sit in alone all the time
watching the t.v.
posponing everything
but your own death.

love
life
dancing with the world
you gave that up
for fear
for indifference
for the fat lack of motivation
for chronic apathy all day
and all night god help us.

All the people are
motivated day in day out
and when he says
i cannot be arsed
i do not want to do anything.
everything is here. it is done.

they look at me
as though
i had molested
their entire life
purpose.

i want nothing.
i need nothing.
i am a pearl within a shell
more like, a gassy shit in a paper bag.

i just want to be
crushed by the weekend
and ironed out by work.

the clock is ticking
my heart has no hands
when the blood has stopped
running through my body
like a kiss it will finish.

And
the
sky
will
remain
like
a
door
that
never
opens.

This Tumour of Darkness.

So what is it going to be then...?
Do you want to rape beautiful women
in dark streets, dominating, force them
into bed, to strangulate their throat a little:
you love the thought of pleasure and terror
at odds with one another?

Do you want to fuck
little hairless girls and slender boys,
just to prove you're still young,
and educate all that children have
sexuality too? Or do you want to fold
then gift wrap because you are
truly sick in the cranium?

Do you want to rub
faeces and piss and shit
all over your body
and spread it all over
your erogenous zones,
with your lover doing the same,
all arts and crafts and face painting,
because that's the kind of an animal you are?

Do you want to fuck your mother
or your father, or your little cousin,
imaging them nude in posture,
dominating you or you dominating them
again and again: a bed of incestuous
moans...?

Do you want to torture
a complete strange,
by hammering splinters through
the slits of their finger nails?
Do you want to stab them
in the stomach and photograph
them bleeding ?
Do you want to run rampage
through the streets with a hammer
gun bludgeoning and maiming
hundreds of anonymous innocent people?

Do you desire to bugger and molest
dogs, horses, lamas, mice and snakes?
Do you dream of erotic animal farms
in the most depraved and wicked
nature? Are you a bestial leech
sucking on the udders of a
family of Cows?

Are you privy to darkness?
Someone is...Someone must be...
With such depraved and wicked nature
Someone is...Someone must be...
For this litany of pitiful sick-on-a-cellular-level-Sins
Someone is privy to this tumour of darkness...

(I am obsessed with the darkness,
but I have a strong sense of Light
standing by me. I want to prize the world
open, to expose itself and clean
its insides outside...)

Which do you want,
do you hide?
Do you want these things?
What one is creates your darkness...

No?
You don't?
So what's your
bloody problem
with the World?

Arsenokoités and Malakos

-->

Fruits of Labour

Jam loved Honey.
Honey loved Sugar.
Sugar loved Strawberry.
Strawberry loved Lemon.
Lemon loved Salt.
Salt called them all:
FAG HAPPY FOOLS!
Got drunk
peppered their eyes
and never returned.


As Adam Early in the morning

Adam men make such strange women,
the hair on your ass is not Shakespearean,
and there is much that the world feels wrong,
but the universal whiteness of our bone is enough
to show God loves more than words confound.
Your touch is wholly more than sound.
Your body with my body is so brand new.
And together we learn to come around
realise warm to the touch, this is
what made world grow and love kindle.

An Archaeological Query

Queer all those dark passages.
Hairy, cavernous, filled with spiders' webs
and dark matter clinging to the walls.
This cave needs some excavation,
some manly or limp wristed Indiana Jones
must bring to light the Holy Legacy
and Fag Happy mystery
of the Arsenokoités and Malakos.

The Bagpipes!

What oddity you are a giant creepy crawly
with awkward daddy-long-legs body
a hybrid hexapod musical entity.

You are an intestinal track- a bladder
stomach lining - the Highland Cows udders.
You scream down Buchanan Street
we wince and bleed in the customary fashion.

A riot of screeches from a creche run amok.
Your drone and whine were first brought
into being to terrify the enemy from afar.
Now they pipe to keep folk tradition breathing;
and like tending to a long unused lielow
which we do not know has a puncture
we desperately keep pumping hot air into you.
Terrfied to let you go, terrified to listen to what you are saying.

Down Albion Street (excerpt)

Down Albion Street

Weekend, I'm walkin doon the road wae my buckfast tonic, startin tae get fired up, jist headin’ up tae Jo-Jo’s tae get mad wi' it, when a couple a wee dirty hairys walk up behind us and says:

'Awright ya wee fanny, whit you on yir ayn fir? You Billy-no-mates or sumthin..? Come wae us doon the park, here want tae get aff wae baith ay us doon the park, touch me and kellies fanny. Tell naybday but right, wee man....Here, geez a tan aur buckie ya div...Whit’s yir name?'

‘Wee Aldo…’

Yaas, a fought, I might get tae poke her or get ma hole… so we just walked alang and aw took a few tans of the buckie and the two lassies just messed aboot way my cap and pinched ma arse and giggled, jist messing aboot. I think they were pure into me to be honest – nutin serious but. I fink they wanted to go into the bushes and get bush happy. Ha-ha! If only Jo-Jo was here man, he's missing himself. What mad wee hairys they wir....still but...I would happily take them tae the bushes...But guess whit! As we walked alang the road a heard the big shout:

'Oi!! SCROTUM! YOU'RE GETTIN BANJOED!'

Whit! I didnay expect that. Ah, shat maself, on the other side of the road wiz a crew about 5 bodies, they were fuckin mental, and I was on ma own with two lassies. They might hink a wiz an arsebandit. I should daya bolt - run like fuck. But they wid chase me and batter me. I just walked alang averting my eyes, and the burds shout tae the boys and one of the boys says:

'Awright ladies...!'

The biggest prick all cocky and sureivhimself, cap tipped tae the sky, was with his team and they aw walked er the road. The burds smiled tae thum. A pack a dugs right enough man, tannin cans a brew, boaills uh cider, smokin bifters, lookin fir a fight or tae attack some yuppy cunt.

'Awright ladies...whose the wee scrotum wae you? Tellum to geez a tan of his buckie or we'll Chib him ear tae ear... don't try tae run bawbag '

He looked right intae me. I turned white. I wiz freakin out, about to run off, but the bastard got a hold of ma jaket, pushed us around. He pulled out a big carving chib. It looked like a fucking butcheries knife. He waved it about all callousletting it glint in the light. He held it near ma face. I wiz tremblin' trying no tae show it – but they could tell.

‘I’ll fuckin hit yee, wee man…WHIT! WHIT...! You know we could tear you apart. No chance wee yin...WHIT! WHIT!’

And he wacked me on the side of ma face and it stung cause he wore a couple a gold rings, but it didnae bleed, it just hurt and bruised over. And I just passed him ma boaill.... pure panicked and intimidated wae the big yin holdin my collar…and cried oot:

'Here mate! Have my buckie...take it...take it aw!'

But he just laughed at me. Grabbed the buckie and smashed the bottle on the grund. All the squad laughed at me in the street diggin insults at me. The big prick growled, looked like he was goin to belt us again. But he started chanting and pointing:

'SHITEBAG! SHITEBAG! SOAPDODGIN SHITEBAG! Ha-ha!'


I ran like fuck, sprinting back doon Alba Street, away hame. Leaving them aw behind. Couple ay thum chased us fir a bit but my adrenlin was pumpin - a bolted fast as a dug. Ended up, the burds went away with the five big cunts and probably went tae the park. Pricks! I went on hame tae build a few joints and watch the tele, which iz pish, but I couldnay be fucked going tae Jo-Jo's now. I fuckin HATE Glasga! It's filled wae fuckin jakies and nae cunt gives a fuck aboot anycunt.

So I got hame, slammed the fuckin door, ma ma and da were oot at The Wallace Arms, a jumped intae ma room and clapst on ma bed and started tae build a joint, and lay back and sparked it up took a few meaty draws and relaxed, and just as ah wiz smoking ma joint my big bra came intae the room and says:

'uryegauntaethegemmethemorra?'

'Aye...' I said. 'Aye...amgauntaethegemmethemorra.'

Auch, it wizny aw bad aw the time.

Headache and more wandering.

Headache:
It feelith as though
a brick bashith my skull.

It feelith as though
a knife sliceith my frontal lobe.

Decadence par excellence
in a European mind state
run by powder vodka fear and wine

A migrane migrates through a Nation of spine.
*
It is not because the Sagrada Familia has yet to be complete and may never be complete in my lifetime. Nor is it because I have not eaten a tomato in several days. Nor does it have anything to do with the fact workmen have been opening up the street and feeding cables into its belly. Nor is it the fact that I indulged in a big power bag of cocaine on the weekend. Nor is it because everytime I pass that Church it has a sign which says 'Jesus: The Evidence'. In fact, I don't no what it is that it being referred too.
*
Headache: Migrane:
such aliments are alien to me.
Knives do not stab my brain.
Asprin does not know my name.
When I am asked to swallow
pharmaceuticals
I retch and reach for the water.
*
Stress is a large office block in the middle of a City.
Every City is a highrise stress, but no one asks
out loud 'when will City regress to open field?'
*
There is a man who rapes women and when he gets home devours five gravy soaked steaks, but we don't know that and never will, all we know is that he has a ferocious taste in women and meat - lives alone.
*
In this suburb at night, if you stand outside in the dark, nothing happens: for hours and hours: nothing occurs - it's as though everyone had died or fallen into sleep. A great boredom hangs. No explosions here: noone screams. Everyone is safe. Everyone locks their front door at night. Everyone locks the toliet door even when the house is empty. Everyone puts the snib on their front door in the middle of summer. Everything is safe but noone can be trusted. Old ladies whince when tall men fling bags over their shoulder. Couples walking dogs cross the road when hooded figures come strolling by. In this suburb at night, if you stand outside in the dark, nothing happens, and I never will: that's why the writing is so bad.
*
Walking along the road -I'm hyper with coke-this bald headed guy comes walking out of a dark lonely alienated park across the road (the park is alienated because it is the only park for miles). Cleave - we'll call him Cleave, for now, I never got his actual name - walks toward me all big strides, sure of himself, and pulls something out from inside his jacket pocket - a meat cleaver. Oh shit! What does he want? He's going to attack me. Quite clearly he is off his nut. Cleave wants me to come with him and help him stab another man who insulted him earlier that evening. What possible reason could he have for believing this was in any way not an absurd and sociopathic question to ask anyone, in the middle of the night? He obviously had no idea how but he is clearly frenzied with beer and spirits - one minute good guy, next intimidation. So, Cleave walks along beside me for a short time. He talks but I do not listen. I look straight ahead. I don't want to know. I do not care. I want rid of him. As we walk along he notices another couple across the road...he leaves me, with his meat cleaver, and goes to unnerve the couple, to make them feel a special private street walking terror.
*
BOOOOOOOOOOORING!
rang the doorbell.
SHIT!
said the toliet flusher.
I'M THIRSTY.
said the cold tap.
GET NAKED.
demanded the shower head.
LIE DOWN BABY.
insisted the bath.
- it was the evening of the strange
and forward bathroom
in someones else house.
*
Having no money you realise
All along the table had been rigged.

Big Issue

Byres Road:
Outside Hillhead underground,
I'm standing in the street
handing out free newspapers
that no one has an interest in
but I'm getting paid for it
so I'm not overly concerned.

After a bit of standing and handing
Along walks a Big Issue seller he takes up stand
not too far away from me, he's with his boss
the guy who makes sure
all the vendors are in their stand.

They notice me handing out my rag
and i think cringe: Aw no, no!
They are eyeing me up thinking
I am a fool for standing here
near the Big Issue sellers spot
handing out a cheap paper
while he is tryong to sell a paper,
at the very least with a purpose.

But both come over say hello...
the boss pulls out two apples from his bag
and hands them to me in a friendly manner.
I put one in my left pocket and one in my right
and the boss says 'it's cold oot here the day'
I reply 'Aye, it's, Baltic. Thanks for the apple's.'
and then the Big Issue seller says
'Don't worry son, you're no standin in ma spot'

His boss moves off and
we stand apart from each other.
I go over and buy a copy of the Issue
then I go back and stand in my space
and continue to hand out more papers
to those who want freepapers.

After six hours the cold gets to you,
hands and feet numb the people pass
and the rain urinates down relentless.
And with that I decide to get the bus home
So I say goodbye to the big issue seller
he says: 'i'll see you some other time Big Man'

I get on the bus soaked and freezing
the bus is cold as well and after a bit
the windows start to steam up with
condensation from all people giving off body heat
talking and waiting to go home for their dinner.
Just like I was.

Leaps of Association

It is a wonder how many people are opening
the front door to their house in Madagascar
right now...
*
Tolstoy said that Shakespeare was dry and tedious.
And not many people know that - nor should
*
Circus tent
clown face
bright red party hat,
jester juggles,
the lion tamed to a sheep stares,
the ring master whips to attention.
Begin...
*
Words -
sent out on up the line
to face the firing squad
as I sit back and idle.
*
The Children sleep close by
with faint puffs of paper thin breath.
My eyes become heavy
doze to tranquil coma
soft as a rock in a pool of cushion.
*
Words mysterious....
ethereal...smoke signals...
hand gestures...love tokens...
coughs crackles...
secretive little fingers...
under night time covers...
lips and teeth...tattoos...
*
On the great frying pan
We pretend we are dancing
As we lift our burning feet together
Afraid to disclose the pain on our soles
*
The Nobility of Wetting Oneself
*
Car crash love scene
*
Amateur writer wanted dead or alive!
*
Tears pouring and hitting off the window:
disguised as rain fall...
*
Weak body shipwreck weekend
on the island of The Drunk
*
Nonsense on stilts walking down the high street
falls over the bridge and into the river then
floats down stream splashing and nearly drowning,
all the while no one notices.
Nonsense arrives home safely though wet...
*
Mindless jabbering of a mind short of some scaffolding
- build where no one shall build!
Straw hat thought blown to the wind...
*
How dark and sinister you..re ageing naked body is
Beside the fresh skin of the children of the Future!
*
Many small thoughts, many suggestions, much gardening,
much kissing, much drinking of wine, much fighting and swearing,
much paying of bills, much confusion, much love and friendship
much misunderstanding, before the final curtain!
*
Memory loss
Memory lose
Me m y l se
me o l s
m o e
m s e
l o
*
Keep everything a mystery - that's God.
A man inside a question mark
Held up to the light and invisible,
Can you see him, see look, yes, he's there,
Where the eye can't see plain enough
*
Dangling my soul off of a bridge - it pleads with me:
don't let me go! Please don't! I love you!
The look of terror and tears gave me a feeling of superior power
the soul dangles: please! Don't! I can't swim! I will die! Please don't!
I joke about with soul, but I am weak and pull soul back up,
I play this game so as not to concede my dependence on soul...

Of Drift and Special Ease

I never sleep
peacefully
on the bed
never sleep
patiently
into dream.
Never quite reach
sleep comfortably
that groove time
of drift and special ease
of gone and just going off
in to perfect snooze mode
- cosy to gone.

Never quite reach that
first layer of sleep
still aware

There is sincerity
in quiet of dark
unasked for.
A neutrality.
Solitary bliss.

Though restless
peace now with
the certainty of
pulled curtains
the seal of walls
warm toe cosy
feet arms legs head
perfectly secure
preparing to
drift

Eyes closed
Weightless
self
kettle warm
muscles slack
small aches
- strains
the covers massage

Into
Dreamy
peaceful now

as everywhere around
the sound of nothing
And of nowhere.

The Mind Is a Sieve

my sickness grows from a love turned sour
my spirit is naked and frost bitten in an arctic wind
snow blind love blind heart blind
*
my love is selfish
my love is not even tangible
Jesus, what am I talking about?
Am I ranting at the wind again?
*
as spiders crawl up my legs
like they own me
*

The rain urinates down from the sky
swollen grey clouds amass like armies
from WW1,
they have the look of two large
scholarly eyebrows crowding into
a frown of disappointment...
*
Five children sun about in the sun,
searching for their mother
who has fallen asleep in the
back garden with slight sunburn.
They will sneak into the kitchen
and steal three biscuits from the biscuit tin.
*
Damn! Then the memory of Alex, 16 Years Old: DEAD!
Smashed over an L.A. highway and lying there like
an open wound for every one to see and remember
their own childhood, and all the cars that passed
and all the passengers that looked, would never
know that Alex would be on a life support machine
for one week before it was switched off...
No, they still do not know that and nor should they!
Nor do they know that Alex's parents where Scottish
and that on the day he lay dying on that road
the woman who came to comfort him in his pain
was Scottish...and therefore the last voice he heard
was Scottish.
*
Love is Nostalgia. Love is memory.
Love is your private hidden stupid heart.
Imagine: from 1800 until 2007, 7:48
everyone has been nostalgic for the
lost and the lonely and the dead and
the dying. And it is absurd to think of
such things and it is beautiful and it
is those sorts of sensitive thoughts
that build giant monuments and steeples to God!
*
Rays of sun shine
through the blinds
like swords of light...
*
Politicians: Puppets
in a cynical puppet-show,
where only the strings are real...
*
from the womb to the tomb in ten
easy steps of sorrow and joy
experience and watch
your mother and father die
and be strong enough for that,
as flowers wither
they nod their heads...
*
when will the world
quieten to a heart beat...?
*
when will Mothers
lift up their arms
and Fathers untie
their breasts...
when will the
million questions
undress to answer
themselves.
*
there are many universes that exist
like this universe: they float
like bubbles in the air
each joined to each...
*
this here world,
seem beyond false
*
as crumbs fall and pile on the floor
as the neighbours hammer on the wall
*
There is not much to say.
There is only a kind of stirring
of the pot, flicking the words about.
*
Making something out of nothing…
memories...memories...memories
they'll do, they'll live, they fall through!
*
Then the thought of that
thirty year old woman
from up North
as I seduce the woman
she seduces me
(don't tell her husband)
the heat of the passion was so mad
we just left our minds at the door
and welcomed our bodies into bed.
*
time cries in the rain
love makes warm lentil soup
memories build houses
eyes scratch out the bad images
the pearls in the shell rust
the diamonds lose their edge
*
my mind is a sieve
my thoughts
drop like rice.

*
*
*
*
*

Upon the Word

I cannot write I have no hands.
Instead, I use my feet to gather stones
and pile them together into
the form of Miniature Mountains.

I have no poems they bore my mind.
Instead, I pick up all the sticks I can find
and join them together
into the form of five fingers.

I imagine pointing
at the world with my finger
while upon my mountain, bellowing
Do not linger too heavily upon the word.

Mad Cerberus

It is Friday. I shall be going out for some drinks tonight.
I shall drink with due care and attention. Like a policeman.

Ah, but all round the world is a crazed Dog!
A mad Cerberus frenzied with rabies...

Muslims are ordained Pitbull Terriers!
Christians are frothing German Shepherds!
Atheists are obedient Labradors!

It appears everyone is sniffing their own private parts.
Licking their wounds...following their Master...Heel Boy!

The bombs drop and fall and burst
wild placentas from some grand abortion...
how vivid and bombastic an image, how melodramatic!

As the soldiers cry in their late night beds.
As the widows weep and weep and weep to no-one.
As the many judge the few, weak jump, strong arm.
As the machine guns melt, bullets retreat, missions fail.
As the bombs burst pour say nothing and begin again.
As the casualties drop like condemned buildings.

It will continue like a recurring guilt
and we are useless to stop it.

I shall go now and drink and sing and dance ridiculous
as the poems write themselves as all wars are one war
as the Sun and the Moon ask no questions.

Side Of The Road

(Picture taken by Kevin Carter)

If you can picture a dying African baby
pipe cleaner thin nothing but a pick of meat
croutched like a Mohamadan praying
as a vulture stalks just feet away
waiting to feast upon this carrion.

If you can picture this:
please take a photograph
to offend civilisation.

Imagine,
needle sharp beak
knitting on the corpse
gouging flesh, tugging
at a tangle of heart strings.

eyes meet

our eyes meet
ten thousand stranger
eyes and we each a kind
eye shake shy hand look
touch see as we pass by
passersby

Fugitive

Someone may well ask:

What is your secret?
All we are aware of is
the edge the question.

What could you say?
My secret is frequently searched for.
Call out our name - secret. Stop hiding!
You make me light nervous cigarettes.

What we guessed at in the dark of night.
Secrets are keeping secrets from our secrets.
They make a terrible question
dark and searched for, come alive:

Our secrets forget themselves momentarily
...Who are you: my lover?
If we could give you a name it would be easier.
It would set a wandering mind at ease.

You keep us forever undercover.
As whispers
whisper our secrets
and tell us who we are.

Lonely

Lonely,
As the phone that rings out.
As curtains billow in the breeze.
As an itch takes hold of the neck.

Lonely.
Only as those who cannot be alone.
Only as those who need company.
Only as those who cannot stand themselves.

Lonely.
As the dark is hung with swollen clouds.
As the restless move their hands and feet.
As the desperate speak long conversation.

Lonely.
As cigarette smoke.
As a single wooden chair.
As a barren cupboard.

Lonely.
As the rumours of others.
As the need for acceptance.
As constant reassurance.

Lonely.
Only as pathetic is lonely.
Only as a sensitive little weakling.
Only as a little creep of self-pity.

Lonely.
As a persistent caller.
As the phone rings out.
As there are no answers.

La Société du spectacle.

The Revolution of everyday life
shall begin with every body sleeping in...
Only when man and woman
have slept in unexpectedly
shall they truly experience
a momentary glimpse of life
outside of
Spectacular Society!

O lament!
The Petty Squabbles of Neighbours Rights.
The Fiasco of Private Parking in Busy Streets.
The Council's Permission for building extensions.
The Taxation of Absolute Resources.

O sing to the possibility!
The Garden lawns of Absolute Community.
The Garden Furniture of Parochial Civility.
The Pure Governance of Garages and Sheds.
The Hedges and Sheers of Natural Reality.

Afterall this has been considered
We shall meet on the barricades
After brushing our teeth hurriedly
Rushing past as the local police officer
reminds you:

'Wrong era, Sir...
must have been a simulation...
nostalgia from an old film...
memories of something better...
a myth of gossip...
it happens to all of us...
Good Day...'