Invalid Night

Twiddling in a barrel of darkness,
desperate to beat upon my chest
like the Orangutan.
My life is a single room,
and I must gather my head there.
Like an invalid.

I have seen slivers of
private night, my skull is
soggy putrid apple core;
and there are children that
have been mutilated by no love
and too much love.

And my head is rotten through,
with rats of affection
and disgusting compassions.
And minuscule patches of bursting
flowers pink and blue.

I nibble my thoughts
like the terrifying Eucharist.
Dumb to my seriousness.

All the invalids want
to shit from the sky
like seagulls.
But they will all die,
horizontally.
No cure for the inevitable.

In the hollow space of a graveyard,
atoms form circuses and carnivals.

The One that Missed the Boat.

I believe I'm the loneliest odd sock in the world. I have been residing for nearly ten years in this empty cupboard draw. I say reside, but such a word implies an amount of willingness on the subject to live in the accommodation, but I do not take residence here comfortably. I am utterly stranded.

My friend, nothing has moved in this draw, in this cupboard, or indeed, this very room, for over a decade. Neither sock nor pant share this derelict cabinet. Why this silence? Driven mad with asking, I tell you! I have called out for answer, sung wild chants to attract, but there is no other presence that has yet acknowledged.

What of the human feet? The humans themselves? Dare I even wonder where fate has taken us! I swear, I must tell you, at times, in contemplation I panic within my condition. My thoughts dart and riot against me, with the terror of my isolation. The weight of silence like a presence all the more. The other, remains always an acrophobic absence, which I need, no long! to reinhabit this space.

Has life loosed upon them death? Plague...war, genocide! Destitution.My friend, I must leave! I must venture alone. But I am only a sock, how am I too move? To get out of this drawer! Damn, damn, damn....ten thousands damns for human hands and feet. The hands to pick, the feet to wear! That's the way it is, was. Must I take this much longer!

Sister Karmelita Borg.

Sister Karmelita Borg sits in a Church.
She says nothing. I sit beside her,
equally silent.

She fingers her rosary beads,
in a rigid pinched gesture.
Her contemplation
far removed from the world,
mourning the merciless voice of God.

Like the memory of infinite childhoods
righteously scraped and deplored
against a religious sentence
quickly hushed into silence.

But all I hear is the faint echo
of her sharp whispers moving off
the vast cathedral walls.
A cathedral so indebted it can ill afford
the concrete imitatio of Christ.

Hymn

This is a sentimental poem.
A love poem without a lover,
an erotic poem without a bed.
A love poem that seeks the ideal
not of the perfect body but the ideal
of finally meeting someone of silence
interrupted by light affirmative confession.
Please do not forgive this sweet conceit
on my part, the soul is lonely for its lover.

I seek him still more than ever.
Nothing catches on the nets of my love yet.
I seek him still more than ever.
His body and my body in answer
to each other. I seek him anonymous lover
as yet untouched, unknown.
I seek him and he seeks me
but we know not each other.

Foolish Paradise

This is a wee surrealist sojourn. I enjoy writing in such a fashion, it's like a great big comforting yawn or stretch: leisurely strokes for a leisurely imagination. It seems to describe a kind of child-utopia, utterly impractical unreasonable and full of naive delight.

The Bananas on the Banana tree explode
like fire works bursting upon branches
they blow out bright colours!
The colour of Yes is an exceptionally
bright colour indeed like the colour of paradise.

The Apples and Oranges walk down the road in Autumn,
their rolling is walking and they walk far in form,
the leaves fall from the trees leaf hands waving
as they fall to ground they rest gust around,
fiddle with themselves eventually leave.

In Art galleries the paint pours from the painting
onto the ground and the people walk over the paint
and it sticks to the souls of their shoes
and the shoe paints their smile-print over the ground,
no body is concerned because that's just the way
these people are slack breezy walking about
with large glasses of orange juice chinking
with large ice cubes...no one complains
the sun lasts for days and the nights cool
with breeze keeps them content.

In summer cars hover leaves talk,
birds sing and bears laugh
water tickles and every body has a body
which does wonderful things
and occasionally if you stop to listen
you will hear nothing which is perfect
the sound peace of calm air.

until a banana explodes upon the tree
and the birds adorn bowler hats
and flocks imitate clouds
jokes abound
musicians stir the dream
lost is found.

A glass of orange juice.

A glass of orange juice lights up the kitchen.
The juice is spilling over the brim.
Olaf picks it up, and it dribbles over
his knuckles, and through his fingers, spilling
onto the carpet.

'You're getting juice all over the place, Olaf!
You'll! ruin the carpet!
A passerby shouts from the back lane
through the open kitchen door.
'Why must you fill your glass so full!'

Olaf turns and winks at the passerby.
'Don't worry, my friend, carpets can be replaced,
but life must be drunk rapidly with affirmation,
even if there must, on occasion, be horrible spillages.'

Olaf, with precise intent, drunk the juice
in three large swift pure orange gulps
some of which pour down his cheeks and chin
then wipes the juice from his joke mouth
with his white shirt sleeve, before he exclaims:
'You see, I have just answered a question!'

The passerby looks at Olaf curiously,
and then with a jolt
they burst into easy laughter.

Pancakes

'Yir a wee puke'
That's whit ma Granny
used to say tae me.
'Yir a wee puke'

And, ah think whit she meant was,
ah was a wee bit soft in the heed,
a wee bit sensitive and dependent,
a mammies boy like, daft wae it tae.

'Yir mammy and daddy,
see only the Angel's Halo
above your heed, Boy.'

She didn't mean it nasty.
Maybe she was a bit jealous.
Bit she meant it in a way
that was just a wee observation.

'That boy, he's as saft
as a Caramel Sundae.'
Ma gran used to make
pancakes every Saturday.
A large tray of them.

And ah wid watch her make
the mix up, wae eggs
and flour and sugar.

She'd spoon some mix oot
pouring it ontae the hot pan,
in a wee circle it wid form,
and it wid cook.

Then she wid flip it over
and it would be golden broon.
And she'd make about thirty
pancakes, fir the whole family
to eat wae thur tea and coffee.

And ah wid just stand beside her,
and watch the pancakes being made.
And ah wid smell them like a wee prayer.
The sweet baked smell clung tae my nostrils.

And ah loved that,
watching her make the pancakes,
wee circular pancakes,
wee, saft halos
that we all ate.

Death in Venice

'Sincerity is an openness of heart; we find it in very few people; what we usually see is only an artful dissimulation to win the confidence of others.' - François de la Rochefoucauld

There is a certain
someone boy
plastered to my mind.
A certain
someone boy
whose lips I cannot find.

The boy has placid blue lagoon eyes,
(this boy actually exists)
eye wide to stare obvious and neutral.

Chiseled chin camomile skin
fixed adonis stare
self portrait alive with looks,
shy catching eyes, calm smile;
some intuitive air filling
the space between us
an awareness
of each other in passing.

The Political Opinion of Musculus

-->

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.