blink and you'll miss it

The poets were free, they broke out of their cages,         à   In meh real life Eh micht be a man born in Scottish,

With files made from words, in political rages,              à           Wi' nae pride when ithers hae nae waater and clottish

The rhyme it went “clunk” at the end of their line,        à   Am I, clottish, clottish and glaickit -

Predictably violent for its place in time.                        à   A crazy, clottish, garrulous fake-it.

The poets were free with knives made of ink,                 à   In meh still life meh mither and faither are dyin',

Drunk, half-crazy and alive on the brink,                      à   As ah meh children leh in pain.

With barbed half-pipe and chain in hand,                     à   Meh daughter, meh son and meh wife are cryin',

To draw a ragged line in sand.                                       à   While a paper mirror whispers insane.

The poets broke free, they said watch your back,          à   From meh cortex Eh like to call bad ideas names   

Your front, your side and your gunny sack,                  à   And ill-thocht-oot theories driven beh pride,

But then suddenly they changed their roles,                  à           Or fame-hungry greed and self-involved gemmes,

Lost their hearts and sold their souls.                           à   The religion beh which Eh abide.

The poets were free, but now choose to be chained,      à   In meh hypocrite's life Eh extoll the virtues o' ambivalence,

The poets were wild, but now choose to be tamed,        à   But extend nae such hand tae the poorest o' neighbour.

The inglorious poets, from a distance,                           à   In meh pare life Eh see, the virtue o' charity,

All died and rotted away in this instance.                      à   While ah meh excuses Eh favour.

Cages, rages, violent, barbed,                                        à   Mither, faither, bairns, daughter, son, wife,

Violent, knives, drunk, half-crazy,                                 à   Virtue, charity... other fowk

Barbed half-pipe, chain, rotted,                                     à   Hae done it, so how cannae Eh... 

Chained, tamed, inglorious, died.                                  à   ...jist smile politely and leh.

The Night Shift Epiphany

I am on the night shift,

 With a pleasant fellow called GaRy,

Who can't really hear me.

 GaRy can't hear me,

 But is so much more than deaf -

 As I am so much more,
Than the man told to tap him on the shoulder,

 If the fire alarm goes off,

While sorting letters.

 I'm not sure,

 How to communicate,

 As I don't sign

 And he does,

 Little lip-reading,

 So I tap him, 

Smile and mouth;

 "YOU OK?"

 Theatrically,

 Of course.

 He smiles,

A light in his,

Then rolls,

 His,

 Eyes,

 And nods.

 I'm not sure,

 If he's rolling his eyes at me,

 Or as a gesture,

 Of shared contempt,

 Perhaps for the task,

 In which we are currently,

 Engaged.

 I resolve,

To write a letter,

 Explaining what,

 A Freak,

 He stands next to,

At 4 am,

 In the factory morning,

In the parallel queue,

Explaining about me,

The one tapping him,

 On the elbow,

 And grinning,

While sorting mail,

At 4 am,

Humming,
To the absolute eighties,
And telling him,

I am a writer.

You Stupid Bitch

There's not another rhythm,

Like you stupid fucking bitch,

Nothing else in language,

Nearly quite as rich.

You stupid fucking this,

And you stupid fucking that,

I was not brought up to swear,

But you stupid fucking twat,

Can't you hear the rhythm?

The scansion just as rare,

As anyone who judges,

Judges fair and square.

You stupid fucking bitch,

You stupid fucking bitch,

Nothing else in language,

Nearly half as rich.

Not hypocrite, not stupid cunt,

Has nearly half the rancor,

Not lying prick, or fucking runt,

Or dick, or two-faced wanker.

Stupid bitch, you stupid bitch,

No, nothing else in language,

Has half the class or scansion,

Than you stupid fucking bitch,

You stupid fucking bitch,

There you are,

Living alone,

In your stupid fucking mansion.

awareness enhancer

Oh Cancer,

Satan are you,

Worst of the worst

Debt which is due.

While Blake wrote of Heaven,

And Milton of Hell,

Both were aware,

Of the sickening smell,

And the site of,

Deterioration,

That grips our vision,

Shares to see,

That foul cancer,

Which grips,

And kills,

He and she.

if I had never loved you

i might never feel this way

clouded by doubt

covered in clay

immersed in…

and now I curse love

and never again

will allow myself

to slowly bend

to affection

or familiarity

to selection

or familiarity

Oh Cancer,

Assistant of Death,

Oh cruellest brother,

Cometh, cometh,

And stoop so low,

To the lowest depths,

Of reality,

And below,

The fury,

Of immediate,

To eternal lands,

Raped and pillaged,

And left in strands.

Oh Cancer,
Awareness enhancer,

You eat away at my soul,

For the indiscriminate,

Unholy hole,

You left in the world,

For those we knew,

We loved and cared for,

Young and old,

But never spared for,

All the beauty of this earth,

The trees and mountains,

Paths and streams,

And all the divine,

Hopes and dreams,

Of children, parents,

Friends and lovers,

Artists, doctors,

Fathers, mothers,

And all the things,

Laid in between…

No Cancer,

You make your way through,

No matter what,

Satan are you,

For taking away,

In the fashion you did.

if I had never loved you

i might never feel this way

immersed, immersed