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...'