You've been running
about in my mind
Trying to send me a message

But speaking another language
So it fell off radar
And into deaf ears

Trying to send me a message
Trying to replace those moments
and those lost years

But speaking another language
So it fell off radar
And into deaf ears

SdB '16

Beggars line the busy streets
cup and cloth outstretched
the look of desperation etched on their faces
like the dawn shadow of a carved lithograph

they don't ask me for spare change
just a simple nod of acknowledgement;
even after a shower and a change of clothes
I must have their look, that broken beaten look
the look of the street.

George Square is busy today
tourists happy clicking panoramic memories
admiration of forced foolish bravery at the Cenotaph
a list of names they will never know
and marvel at the antiquated architecture
to later revel in the wonderment of how anyone
in a civilised and modern society can do without skyscrapers
while they grudgingly share a half-measure of a single malt

I sit on a bench that marks a families love and remembrance
to the passing of a woman named Judith
the pigeons flock in carnal mass gatherings
knowing I've been there for 3 hours already
because I have the look of someone who hides his crusts
because I have the hungry eyes of the look of the street.

The well dressed man at the end of the alleyway,
the plume of carcinogen cigar smoke
like a coal fired power station  in the sunlight
this is where they go for over-priced craft ales
with Sautéed Wild Rabbit starter and £65 Wagyu Tomahawk Steak
a place for fine pickings in the alleyway ashtrays
dispensed cancer sticks left disregarded
the half-finished defiance of another £9 packet
that was simply spare change to begin with

I hover around making false promises on a deadline phone call
pretending in mime to be semi-OK
that the compadres are running late
and "tell me about the theatre show later"
the misdirection amid the camouflage of plastic peace lilies
while my other hand rummages the unspent tobacco
and the black-on-black door steward keeps clocking me
because I have the look of the street.

Wander from Argyle Street towards the pyramid shaped monolith
past the oddly named Benny Hamish - Sicilian Couture Tailors -
through the automatic glass doors of persuasion
up the revolving stairs of many stairs
sail by the portly security guard
(who looks like he'd be out of breath after a 10 yard dash)
along the imitation marble airstrip
passed neon facades and signs for proactive self indulgence
toward the carousel of smoked-mirror lifts
that take the well heeled to their desired destinations
without having to worry about their Chanel leather clutch bag
and newly purchased Christian Louboutin shoes

and I sit people watching,
writing this poem on a borrowed napkin
with a discarded betting shop pen

amid a horde of timid stomachs and twitching wallets
faced with a thousand fast food offerings
and gaudy coloured tables and chairs
littered in the remnants of repugnant non-ecological eateries
and Styrofoam cups and re-composite cutlery
under Noah's grotesquely beautiful steel ark
lined in industrial tubing and chrysalis shaped netting
and giant Art Deco toothbrushes
and 30 foot wiggly mirrors
and stretched rhombus sails
acting as a blanket barrier
to the blue skies and arched sun of the outside world
somewhere between
KFC and Burger King.

I call it the Changeover;
like an analogue radio searching for a signal
sometimes it's clear
sometimes it's static
sometimes it's in between
somewhere between far away and near
somewhere lost in the middle
between Signal and Static.

Clear Day the signal reaches out its arms as far as the eye can see
and the ears can hear
and the senses can feel
and taste buds pop and linger
and revel in new experience
and comfort in knowing
and wrapped in wonderment.

Changeover Day is somewhere between Clear Day and Nowhere
struggling to tune in
backwards or forwards
or sideways or upwards
to something
to anything that resembles a signal
like hearing voices in another room
an argument through a wall
the indecipherable murmur of music
the clamber of ushered noise
the mishmash and cacophony
like a symphony of Morse code.

Static Day is dark day
there is no signal
no senses
no sound
only indeterminate fuzz
and the crackle of broken glass
and the foghorn
and the white noise
the confusion and delusion
the paranoia of shifting jigsaws
changing pieces that never fit together
can almost make out a face through the frosted glass
the smear like bird **** on a window
halfheartedly wiped with lackadaisical whimsy
and greasy chip shop newspaper.

In the Static there is no wind
no heart to beat
no empathy or sympathy
just
cold
hard
steel
out of place in a room of feathers and feeling.

You just have to ride out the storm
tell yourself:
it'll be calm soon
it'll be calm soon
it'll be calm soon

The Changeover
from Static to Signal
and the welcome return of voices
and breathing
and beating
and feeling.

She stands tall and proud, her elegant architecture that even on winter mornings warms an icy breath and sates an empty belly.

In the burst of sunlight, beyond and through the trees, she is a muffle of loud voices, calling out a name, I can't quite catch it, in the rush of a westerly wind and the swirl of Autumn leaves.

The echoes bounce off the bark, and in her resonance heralds the death knell of the light and the coming of the children of the dark.

The moon wrestles in a patchwork cloudy sky, and I the Watcher can do nothing to halt time or the tide.

Left to watch as the Belle Tower fades from sight, silently she hides in the long shadow, and like the moonlight between the trees, flickers as she slowly passes me by.

Fall from grace
That which was never given
Clash with the Titan
Riding the eyes of the storm
Resplendent in ridicule
and washed in wasted rage.

Wrapped in rabid loneliness
Comforted by faithless poison
Purchased from a concrete German shell
Foaming at the mouth of contention
A stooping mottled scar for a face
and crumpled by a decade of abuse.

Such is the light that shines for some
Casting long deep shadows for others
Flickering in a wind licked alleyway
Caked in ***** and discarded toiletries
Shifting vision between dusk and dawn.

The hidden spectres just a heartbeat away
The gloss of a French pastry and the smell
of freshly ground coffee a fingers tip away
Searching for a random act of kindness
or some spare coin to buy the river man a liquid confession so that for a moment,
just a moment, to be human again
soak up the passing laughter and 1st world problems of the cities streets
Ignorant to the roads that lead to nowhere.

I woke up to the pious sunlight of broken dreams
drenched in the faded tear drops of yesterday
arcing like a broken rainbow down empty streets
leading to the septic tank of tomorrow.

Resplendently dressed in rhetoric
silk woven by congenial weevils
frantically fed on gypsum and diesel
weaving verbosity with loquacity
table a motion to make independence illegal;
keep the status quo unequal between certain people.

There once was a dream called change
proclaimed to be the prize of revolution by some
restrained and contained as hyperbole by others
the disenfranchised left muddled in facts unexplained
the vocal ambivalence of political unrest is to blame
as Union Jacks march on Glasgow with steel toe-capped boots
and in the George Square riots the Saltire burns in flames
as history repeats itself
and the thistle of Scotland is ripped by her roots
the first act as a welcome back
into the fold of the commonwealth .

Memories:
the back and forth trajectories
the internal out-of-sync in-sync directories
of treasured moments, of pleasantries
and the reviled relived accessories of treachery.

My memory is pitted with chasms like Swiss Cheese
the phantom dreams of being hit by a car in a winters bite
the realities of unconsciousness and brain spasms
the fathoms baffles in batches and waves of breaches
disfigured features like a frosted window caked in creatures
burrowed and riddled like a parasite in the spite of night.

By the time id got to hospital id forgotten my own name
fortunately I had a gas bill in my pocket which hadn't freed itself
while being violently hurled over the red car bonnet
and it became the one and only evidence that I even existed
even though the A & E nurse insisted and persisted on asking questions:
my address, date of birth, blood type, emergency contact -
like Id have it tattooed on my body like a scene from Memento
amid the voices in crescendo and brain-damage thumping techno.

That was a few years ago, or was it, I couldn't be sure now
but some days I forget what I did in the morning
so I just have to live for the moment somehow
the memories like Swiss Cheese constantly morphing
to the piped tune of the cerebral banshee
buzzing in my left ear like a perpetual honey bee
makes me wonder though;

I am lactose and diary free - the dominant dietary preponderant
some modernistic conglomerate causing ultimate lethargy.
Does this mean if recollections are like Swiss Cheese
I am intolerant to memories?

Black Space
(eyes without a face)
Poverty lingers
like an ill gotten taste
giving up her secrets to no man;
teaching lessons in life
at every turn.

Poverty taught me to be frugal
how to beg, borrow or steal
live on £1 a day to eat once a day
the truthful instinctual perusal
the unreal zeal
blocking the thoughts of hunger
the puerile senses;
the basics on how to feel.

In the near dark I found you
sheltering from the storm
under the bridge just like I was
wrapped in mottled harsh cloth
sitting on cardboard for warmth.

You spoke many languages
had a degree in anthropology
and a penchant for gambling
and alcohol;
we shared a bowl
of disregarded noodles
in the rain.

We have bulldozed the Garden of Eden;
we are nothing more than a parasite with an unending appetite
for destruction in the name of civilization.

Our monstrous monumental achievements can be viewed from space;
we are the cataclysmic legion, the unbeaten ******, the demon of freedom
with the desire to demolish and impoverish the last bastion arboretum.

We are mad and frenzied in our passion;
we are the phantasm assassin choking the very lungs we use to breathe
the misanthrope who carves materialistic thrones to sit on and wait for exalted death while we replant trees in self-centered glorification of hope.

We are doomed and we know it, but we still don't care;
we question science and bemoan nature for wreaking havoc, stare into the microscope looking for answers in the reverent appliance of defiance waiting to find the sparks to eternal life there.

We are the envy, the mistrust, the sadist and the snake;
we squabble over the scraps of apple peel and douse ourselves in ice cubes
whilst far away some African child walks 50 miles for a sip of clean water
we are the plague of mistakes broadcasting hurricanes to entertain.

We have bulldozed The Garden of Eden
now only the snake remains and there is no escape
freely offering the apple peel to those who obligingly accept

our epitaph will read:
humanity stepped back
to be overshadowed by an ape.

You were my rock
my shoulder boulder
eroded over time by mental health
that crept into the room by stealth
but remember all we talked about
you were the foundation
the building blocks
the "we can do this".

Navigate the spell of despair
bear the insignia with pride
dispel and expel the mental scars to bare
we were a team dude
you were my rock in the storm
we were shorn from the same cloth
you and I.

Never ones to shelter from the thunderstorm
arms outwards, dancing in hedonistic pleasure
revel in the present and like Leftfield said:
Release The Pressure.

We were Gods mate, legends in our own time
I am left to decipher why man why
you felt so alone you couldn't reach out
to family, to a friend and have a good cry;
I would've held you mate
like you held me that day.

I had a call from an unknown number
I picked it up in random wonder
to be told your body was found this morning
attached to a home-made rope
feet in shadow by your painted awning
utterly gutted
my brain waves disrupted
that my Sifu, my Teacher, My Friend
life was suddenly spent.

I just sent a letter of poems
for you to read with my consent.

I feel lost.
I feel broken.
The demons we talked about
I've kept them in control
now out of control
the devils have awoken.

You were my friend
like a brother
from another mother

I am left to wonder
where are you now
but know now that your pain has ceased
there will always be a jigsaw piece
of the blue sky missing;
go with God my friend
and forever rest in peace.

Beneath the cities phantoms
lie the beating heart of good people;
reaching outwards from shadow.

In the dying moonlight
an out of tune piano plays its last note;
warped by water over time.

In the close darkness
faces fade emitting anguish;
I wish I could find the missing piece.

That one remaining jigsaw
the puzzle would be complete;
and in it, I would be whole.

One last time.

Feel breath upon milky neck
give yourself
the sacrifice
for unchained paradise
and the gifts of life.

Thrusting forth upon such shapely form
the rise of golden **** and the
glide of swollen *******
such feline majesty
such magnificence of deviance.

Lay hands on nubile skin
deft and swift precision
straddled in muscular passion
the reins like a flowing mane
gracing the arched spine in pleasure.

Tilted head stretched
exposed form
catching dancing shadows
in the eternal midnight.

Call my name
as if a name
were a pulse wave
of unreserved expletives.

The chastity of yesterday
innocence lost in devilry
offered freely
like a gift to the gods
empower revelry
chemically.

****** Deeper
Give Give Give
again and again and again and again and again and again and...

No refrain
awash in pagan sweat
doused and dripping wet
revel in cobalt aquas
close in the rise
of final exaltation
the Alpha stanza.

BOP/bop BOP/bop
hearts beat out of time
heaving breath
encased in bone and heated skin
consumed in the juices of forever
and the pleasure of
pagan archaic sin.

In the distant lands of forever
misted light seeps beyond line of sight
where gulls circle above the ocean squall
lies the dream of ethereal treasure
drifting in and out of dancing firelight.

Within the lush and precious emerald reaches
fly majestic golden hummingbirds
graced in flight off untouched white sand beaches
shadows stand tall in the eye of a lonesome moon
and in its fleeting ephemeral decree
couple wine with unspoken wise words
and see them better received.

In the Eleusinian dreams of men
gather the cornucopia of breath
nourish oneself in the last passing of days
grasp firm the righteous omen
and embrace the rituals within thy beating breast.

See glowing amber give flames to creation
revel in the pagan shamanism
rise above the mortal coil of chains
craft a celebration
and in the haze of hedonism
dance naked in the summer rain.

Aural sounds of delectation
funk-fuel in fervent distillation
undertones of jazz-swing in migration
electronic clicks and blips for relaxation
ambience is my one true occupation.

The resonance of sound in rotation
the initiation itself a radiation
morphological alternation in isolation
as the hubbub of voices echo respiration
breath in, breath out, in elevation.

No underlying obligation, only inspiration
and celebration of collaboration
revel in the pleasures of sensation
like the first discovery of amplification
and in its appreciation and stimulation
embrace variation in all its illumination.

Seek out new music from recommendation
the gravitation towards transformation
the re-education and regeneration
this musical manifestation of civilisation
saturated in complex contemplation
adoration in meditation
the simplest form of gratification
the creative urge for diversification
and technological intensity
of electronic experimentation.

I would see words forged into action
by these hands of broken memory,
memory that still haunts the darkest nights.

The barren tongue of sparse reaction
concealed in cocoons of silenced delight
decorated in jeopardy and lethargy.

The ramblings of an assumed madman
spent wandering these unforgotten years
comforted only by the monastic echoes of ashram
left to deliver his final illuminated message
unto the radiance of waiting ears.

The days have been long,
hastened by the majesty of moonlight
perishing in cirrus cloud formation.

Like the nightmares of crippled machination
and sheathed divinity more man than hallow.

Caressed by warmth of the morning sun
and in it a song for every fleeting shadow.

And this was the message:

Like all beautiful things:

We.
Must.
Fade.

I am Monster:
rough hewn spent and jaded
a loaded revolver
the dark harbour
an improper conduct sponsor
the acerbated and saturated
sympathy and empathy terminated
smarter, harder and sharper
sense of honour departed
a cloned armoured martyr
an existence where love has faded
or simply overused and left degraded.

I am Monster:
shaped by unfortunate events
a life of sharpened steel
etched with the scent of malcontent
chaotic defiance and suicidal descent
the rise of the paragon of zeal
masked in the stench of the surreal
lurking in shadows dark
that leaves its presence felt
like a silent tsunami watermark.

That voice in my head
speaking in tongues
his tasteless insipid breath
fills my lungs
the only respite
is prescribed medication
and meditation dictates;
navigate the monster
and his origin appellation
will have to wait.

The sorrow I borrow
and the chaos I bring
like liquid will eventually
rescind like the pulse of a wasp sting
the poison will dissipate
and then evaporate
in the predisposed
wrath of tomorrow.

Memories of when  
time itself was left curtailed;
the neurological pathway derailed
disjointed collections of moments
the remains of another life contained
like crystal clear components
that built a honeycomb
for monochrome bees
from broken homes.

The defiant silenced
by stolen snapshots
woven in between
the glow of her brilliance
and the blaze of her radiance
her cape of accidental rainbows
like the forgotten colours
of painted dreams left out to dry
and the midnight sun
drained by the bitter taste
of late last goodbyes.

The unfulfilled testimony
now on its own trajectory
summoned from depths of history
fades once again into nothing more
than a fruitless distant memory.

Healing hands laid to rest
wandering in the near light of sunrise
fumbling for fractals of memory
ambling in the haze of yesterday.

Stolen words and displaced letters
floating in the ambience of space
cosmonauts of distant planets
arms outstretched beckoning
the echoes sent from
a thousand light years away.

Time is an irrelevant motion
tiny air bubbles escorting life
rising to the surface of forgotten dreams
spiraling, pulsating in a heartbeat
chambered by grasping futures.

The underlying fever reaching
inwards and outwards through the soul
seeking the blindness of tomorrow
unfurl their magical delights
wrapped in the glint of a solar cosmos.

Drifting beyond the reach of nature
blackness surrounds with the warmth
of knowing, a million miles away,
as if an undercurrent draws its final breath
behold wonderment far-seeing
leaving strange footprints
that someday others will say:
here stood a sentient being.

One is seemingly more impressed
by the less endowed or blessed
when somewhat incapacitated
and borderline inebriated;
the monstrous unconscious
disregards the likelihood
of fathomless undergarments
in other dubious departments.

Disregard the random blotches
or the involuntary discharges
instead revel in model tonsils
and almond shaped parcels
the comets of multi-notches
like a strange attraction
for disheveled carpets.

The blossoms of toxins
a libation ensemble
almost near horizontal
each movement a bent nozzle
like a prehistoric Narwhal
dancing like a jackhammer
with the elegance of a cement mixer
a broken leaking fissure
seeping vapid glamour
and indecipherable grammar.

The paraphrased clichés
and communiques of praise
like lost prophets put on display
caught in the ricochet of overplay
making an exit with the grace
of a stumbling ballet
down a poorly-lit
nightclub passageway.

Ultimately this can only lead to
the face-plant moment-of-tomorrow
the flooded memory of the-night-before
feeling utterly spent
hungover and hollow
with ill conceived consent.

The: Oh. My. God!
The: He/She is still here,
what do I say?
Hoping inexorably
they would just get up
and silently fade away.

Beer Goggles:
remember to drink sensibly,
or run the risk of
nasty STD's
or unwanted pregnancy
or breathless infidelity
or reckless insincerity
or if you're really lucky,
just another
session in therapy.

There's this guy who constantly gives me grief online
as if I need a reminder that I am not funny or smart
that I am incapable of posting any story without his remark
as if he should impart and bestow all of social media
with his divine and seraphic academia:
what is with that?

He posts comments about how illiterate my poetry is
how it doesn't follow the rules; the do-nots and the do's
pontificates how its not properly punctuated
as if I should give up altogether and just shine shoes
and forget trying to construct sentences
just wander in the carousel of nebula's
eternally seeking the tentacle of enemas:
what is with that?

This guy enjoys winding me up like a persistent hobby
the reverent devilment of sadistic entitlement
pushing my head under water for a digital baptism
that I should thank him for his rhetoric enlightenment
as if he was blessed with a correspondence talisman:
what is with that?

This isn't even a poem.
I am letting off steam like an overused kettle
fed up of his mortar forever rammed in my pestle
the temples are raging and my brain is just draining
to explode on cue on the next digital heckle
the cracked and broken vessel
into a vengeful steam-driven projectile:
what is with that?

This, < here > , is my only escape
and creative cathartic vent
I'll post this lament
with the stench of discontent
and tag his name and then just wait
for his feverish malcontent
that I should dare to
prevent his God-like dissent:

memo to self
to a digital antagonist
and his verbose verbal cyst
and the keyboard of twists
when you push
sometimes you get
a big shove back
so don't be surprised
by my riposte
and this poetic attack.

I wiped my *** on Shakespeare once:
in the absence of guidance
or conscience or prudence
bereft of any toilet paper
the solution appliance
which at the time felt like brilliance
was the re-acquaintance of Hamlet.

In that transient experience
the resemblance of ignorance
and the reverence of indifference
ignoring the previous deviance
was replaced
with a new found sense
of future
toiletry diligence.

Silence. Solvent. Substituted;
subsidised
then marginalised
instituted and muted.
And, often
persecuted.

Rationanalised
by abstraction:
every minuscule
interaction dissected.
All that is left is convoluted,
misconstrued
and rejected.

The lucid bewildered.
The disillusioned bejeweled:
rooted in their state of mind.

Effortlessly self-proclaiming
restraining
and refraining
purging the imagination:
the waning of maligned mankind.

And all of his
illuminated limitations.

Practicality is the reality
of ignominious totality
the devices of all sizes
and the grammatical mentality
of systematic duality.

Punctuation is the *******
the ******* of every generation
the permutation and saturation
of wordsmith temptation for re-calibration
the aberration and consternation
that leads to misinformation
and condemnation and annihilation
of the constellation colloquial conversation
the abomination of language urbanization
the fermentation and ionization
of linguistic complications
the desolation of commas and semi-colons
the affirmation of their vs they're
the augmentation of amalgamation
is just the lyrical *******
of a hooded basketball top nation
the culmination of devastation
the gestation and interpolation
that leads to appreciation isolation
and justification acceleration
the modification and assimilation
of poorly-worded implementation
and the contamination of myriad exploration
alienation in illumination
punctuation is the salvation of documentation
against the tides of violation
and the extermination of regurgitation
the classification of discrimination
and last but not least
the liberation of misrepresentation.

Risa's eyes looked out from almond shells
glinting in the morning sun
concealing a golden buttercup glow
wrapped round the ragged peaks of the Himalaya's
like an immaculate dust cover
embroidered with a million clean cut diamonds
revealing the majesty of light
pinwheeling over broken shadows
and shattered solitary star-bursts
peeling round mighty boulders flung by giants
breathing new life into ancient stones
sealing prophecies of dancing immortal angels
stealing the remnants of passing moonlight
as the coming day reaches out and cradles
the last vestige of piercing cold night.

This was the daily healing
the warmth upon her young face
the smile appearing that would melt the ice itself
the young girl from Darjeeling
embraced with gifts of seeing
her nubile and youthful grace
belies the hardship and the routine
of carrying spice to the market
she was not yet even thirteen
the Lapis gem of her mothers eye
the little queen of all she surveys
sashays down the cobbled street way
nestled in the lap of the gods
and the praise of summer days.

Incubus.
The male demon inside my head
The astral constellation
satellites off the shores of Pluto
a cold crushed diamond
hurtling in hyperspace
sparkling in rotation
silently spoken
the unspoken,
the uttered,
the muttered and the said.

Gas formations spiral
the nebula of new world creations
happening beneath the cobalt sky
the unanswered questions
am I even here
and if so,
why?

Gravity.
Descends me
push and pulls me
the ground holds me
reaching for the stars
just beyond my grasp

Space.
That vacuum
******* the corners of imagination
and the lost voices of childhood
running free in the long grass
of colourful dreams.

In the blur I see you
moving slightly amid plucked strings
and vintage wallpaper
the garden of candles
flickering in the near light.

The incubus of devilment
and stolen words
to yet reveal themselves
the forgotten fragrance
of yesterday's radiance
never forgotten
just a short solar burst away
from Proxima Centauri.

I'll get there,
eventually.

I sip my beer, the relief of foam
the last remnant of civilisation
like a porcupine shawl
alcohol is the spine slice
beneath the skin
welcoming me in.

Electric lights shining bright
eels wriggling in a pool of light
like Frankenstein reborn
the monster within
the feathers of a passing dove give flight.

Sometimes I feel like grilled asparagus
the breathlessness of sentiments
wrapped in tin foil
the coil of perfection at gas mark 7.

Sitting in my bathtub and a 3 piece suit
electric toaster bubble and squeak
and fidgety machete at the ready
the voice in my head says, 'hey man, steady!'
the institute transmutes its underplay
I opt to not execute on this occasion
instead soak up the libation of liberation.

Safe in the knowledge;
tomorrow is another day.

We, the people of this country, in your eyes are:

babblers, bachelors, bafflers, baiters, barkers,
beakers, beaters, brawlers, blamers, beggars,
bloaters, bloopers, bombers, boozers, blunders,
bruisers, bafflers, bluffers, burglars and burners.

That's why you feel compelled to keep your foot on our heads
keep us down, put us down, push us down
subjugate us, belittle us, berate us.

We, the people of this country, in our eyes are:

butlers, bouncers, bakers, buyers, barbers,
cake-makers, delivery-takers, cocktail-shakers,
taxi drivers, cancer survivors, employers and hirers,
music makers, entertainers, window washers, foster takers,
plasterers, carpenters, scaffolders, sparks and builders,
boxers, carers, coaches, tailors, shoe makers,
designers, illustrators, multi-language facilitators,
dog walkers, dog trainers, bikers and cycle couriers,
doctors and nurses and all the emergency services.

We are the People, the reason you are where you are now
you sometimes forget that we exist as people, somehow
locked in your ivory towers with gold plated showers
and MP expenses and investment banker pretenses
this is not theater, its real life drama, its not just a bluff
its time to stand up
and say enough is enough.

Tethers that prevent flight
from shaken swollen tears
feathers spent in woeful plight
and a snipers cross-hair sight
amid muffled explosive cheers

Brothers in Arms
never lost to forgotten years
and the sound of a distant gunshot
is all that he hears.

R.I.P. Sgt L.J.

Let me lead you
unto the darkness of the flesh
like a master potters gift
mould from base clay
into something beautiful.

Stand among the giants of creation
touch the diamond studded starlight
just out of yonder reach.

Lay with the embrace of golden rainbows
caressing stolen mystics
as love draws her ripe breath
clinging to the curved and ample *****
of moist and salacious longing.

Broken sleep and unfulfilled dreams
caught in the middle of a cacophony;
a neighbours wife in exalted ecstasy
so loud I now know all his names by memory
and an early morning mobile car wash
high pressure jet stream like a jet engine -
a non-stop bass clef low key in E;
the worst drone gig in history.

Today I will undoubtedly
look unfavourably
upon the the world.
Lets just hope there's a dearth
and a paucity of screaming children
in the speeding tin can to work.

Even on the brink of freedom
when the shackles have been removed
and bodies drenched in aromatic wine
you seek vengeance in the name of duty.

I can only hope for you my dear friend
that when such time arrives
you'll embrace the wisdom of creation
rather than the destruction
bestowed in the futility
that never loved you.

There is no boast in easy victory
or laughter in seeing the tears
tumble from the heavens.
Set aside wounded pride
instead envision the shroud
of misanthropic deviance
mystified by the devices of illusion.

I am the barbed thorn
the serrated reward
facing savage cruel winter;
sedition in transmission.

I am the only pawn
on your chequered board
facing a feisty queen;
of restricting submission.

I am the demonic exon
a heraldic discord
facing bleak futures;
an inherent disposition.

I am the stillborn reborn
the aberration restored
facing anomalies instability;
violation on a mission.

I am broken and worn
a fallen sword
facing a grim battle;
outnumbered by division.

I am the brass horn
the out of tune chord
facing orchestral expulsion;
a musician in remission.

I am history's forewarn
the contrite accord ignored
facing penitent absolution;
clemency in transition.

Leaflet through the door on a 5K run for charity.
Spam email on the benefits of the Paleo eating regime.
Pals posting photo's of culinary creations on Facebook,
and Im in the queue for the food bank;
a hand to mouth existence.

In Scotland, half the people in poverty are working families
struggle to survive day-to-day and the basics of food to live
being asked to work longer hours for less money
while the politicians say they have nothing more to give
and the "Queen talks about austerity while wearing a £1 million hat"
(I'll thank Frankie Boyle for his razor sharp insights on that)
and Im in the queue for the food bank;
a hand to mouth existence.

Contrary to common misconception it doesn't always rain in Scotland.
This week its been 26 degrees, and Glasgow is awash in t-shirts and shorts, and beer gardens with bees. Cold beer never looked so refreshing.
West Enders in their top-down convertibles extolling the virtues of organic produce from Peckhams and their exclusivity price-point gourmet cheeses,
and Im in the queue for the food bank;
a hand to mouth existence.

My brain can't
compute haiku's.
There. No. ******.

*sigh

crystal - clean - clear - concise - cold
the juncture
the fracture
the untold stories
the harp crafted in mildew

so many things
so many many bits of things
square and curved and round things
and roads of never ending things
lots and lots and lots of things

the things would stretch
from here <
> way into the distance
to really really really
..........................................................­...................................  small things

dreams
defrosting
like tomorrow's chicken
waiting
to be cooked with love
unfold its
crispy juiciness

call me crazy
feel free
get in the queue
turn it up to 10
make yourself comfortable
gimme another shot
if there's something I do know

**we have time

Somewhere in the darkness
a godless conscience
wraps itself like a garment
the forgotten harlot
of monstrous prophets
gifting rocket droplets
in exchange for dancing shadows.

Muted in this world of words
stranded by the curb of verbs
caked in adjectives and nouns
and assimilated synchronized sounds
the subvert of the truly disturbed
to utter the unspoken
and mumbles left unheard
skin on skin on skin
left cracked and bleeding and broken
each time awoken
by the screeching echoes
the crescendo of burning sparrows
the stench of rotten carcasses
blinded by invisible needles unseen
accompanied by the shallows of
the sour and salted and hollow dreams.

The mask invades
where no other light remains
like bricked up windowpanes
the silence of the hurricane
and etched tears of faultless
fruitless freedoms refrain
shuttered and shattered and seething
in time to come, but until then
Inexorably
I call out her name
each time I'm breathing.

My Sister's a Poet.
She's the one who showed me the Path.
Introduced me to Maya Angelou and Ben Okri.
Taught me what a nom de plume was;
I could be anyone I wanted to be.

My Sister's a Poet.
She's the one who led the way of the Word.
Introduced me to Dylan Thomas and W.B. Yeats.
Taught me how to use a metaphor;
I could describe myself in analogies.

My Sister's a Poet.
She's the one who pointed the Way.
Introduced me to Sylvia Plath and Ezra Pound.
Taught me what Love could be in symmetry;
I could be the outstretched arm of mirrored caress.

My Sister's a Poet.
She's the reason I am Here and you reading This.
Introduced me to Poems on the Underground.
Taught me the creative cathartic value of words;
I have her to thank for giving my voice meaning.

We are the ***** purveyors of other peoples lives
renouncing the living breathing beating heart
in exchange for another photo of craft ale
and home-cooked food with a foot note description
as if it would fill our bellies and sate our hunger.

We are the dark wave tsunami of digital information
waxing lyrical about that holiday in Spanish sunshine
and a rant about car parking attendants and traffic jams
rather than the outstretched palm to jaw caress of realness
instead we line up perspectives of another bottle of wine.

We are the breeders of the optic L'enfant terrible
gorging on the memories of other worlds in 140 characters
snap shots of the life we could have had outside of the screens
the spineless automatons of digitized free love
the could've been, would've been lumbering electronic has-been.

We are the tumultuous storm rising fighting against the unknown power
we unite to save bees and coral reefs
and explore the concepts of actually doing something humanitarian
all we need do is sign the petition before the 11th hour
and be one of the thousand voices saying:
NO. We won't take this any more!

We are the saviours of our time and the rescue merchants of lost dogs
imbibed by Scrabble and Candy Crush weaving the elusive like a band aid
the tapestry of memes and images of cute kitteh's in boxes
chasing the shadows of reality on a stick for kicks
and all the while the moon is out there somewhere shinning her light
glorious silver light etching through the hash tag of cloud formations.

We are no longer what we thought we were. We are each other.
A haemoglobin gelatinous mass of misinformation and forgotten dreams
You are not alone. Even if you wanted to be,
my friend, my sister, my lover, my brother
quoting movies as if it were an inner wisdom speaking in tongues.

"Actually smearing grape jelly on your body and
running backwards in a cornfield doesn't sound half bad"

He said...

Looking forlorn outside a single glazed cracked window
comforted by burnt toast with jam
birch leaves laden with rain
carrying the weight of the heavens
blistered in angst and the Memoirs of The Sad
awash in the broken remnants of forgotten pain.

"in this pocket I have an itsy tiny universe
encased in an iridescent blue marble"

He said...

The Bearded Glaswegian Baptist evokes the reminiscent's
of a time before when we were all beard-less
lost in the dithering embryonic stutter mumble of life
diving gulls dunking for forgotten baubles and clear cut skulls

"I'd love to crush my ribs in this little beauty"

She said...

Stolen transmits of other worldly delights
like the chastity of a whale bone corset
strapped between the clunky and broad duty
of land licked silken shrouded soft moonlight

"so he totally set light to the kitchen table cloth
blowing out those candles and for some unknown reason
the family all gave a cheer. Thank God for Morphine"

They said...

Hiding in the sheltered shadows camouflaged in errors
mottled by the hues of indecision and impractical precision
lie the instabilities of truth in a blend of Codeine and Jasmine

"My brain cells keep fighting with each other! Poetry and Beer!"

She said...

Outcries of the exalted, bathed in salted peanuts
and yesterdays microwave meal
and the welcome stench of random ***
vibrates the very cherry of the soul and brings it to tears

"Enter the Dragon always makes me think of ******* Maggie Thatcher
*Christ that was a horrible night"

He said...

The shivers of monumental disgust run like an odious puddle
thoughts go out for Dennis knitting his escape hatch
and the unpronounceable muddle that befits the grave of beasts
and the microscopic sentiments of utter shameless sights

"Except for the offspring, soap and shampoo, This [all] makes sense"

Was the death knell...

Lost in ageless rhymes in legion soaked in the punishable treason
Purified by the age of reason and magnified by the madness of time
to think that any of the world makes sense at all if this is a slice
think twice before engaging the brain, and hence
if this is normal for you then at least
I know
Im actually sane.

I know this guy, right
that typos fall out his mouth
like the crumbs from an 8 year old's birthday party;
smothered in icing
cheeks puffed like marshmallow boy
choking on the ecstatic hunger of youth.

I know this guy, right
who's head is stuck together with metal staples
like hooves from the Trojan wars;
part Grecian War Horse
part medical anomaly.

I know this guy, right
who can drink his own body weight
like a Dionysian fountain of beer;
spouting the knowledge of the planets
whilst mixing shots of Whisky with Guinness.

I know this guy, right
who's life revolves around TV and DVD's
like an electronic ****** addict;
citing smoking death rates
and wholesome low price vegan recipes
and the commandments of a moral society.

I know this guy, right
who's a combustible liar with infinite lives
like a genie in the lamp that's flammable;
gets four sentences in and spontaneously implodes
and appears the next night with a tall tale to tell.

I know this guy, right
I know this guy
Some guy
that guy
you know that guy
he doesn't even have to be called Guy
just some guy
you know the guy
we all know the guy

I know this guy, right
I know this guy.

beyond the storms rising in the west
beyond the lonesome moon and her outstretched arms
beyond the fallen arms of grace

I will be there
waiting
for you

beyond the stardust trails of memory
beyond the aqua depths of sea crushed forms
beyond the hallowed shores of belonging

I will be there
waiting
for you

beyond the sheltered solace of reason
beyond the heart-bled felt sinew of time
beyond the crimson ashes of soft kisses

I will be there
waiting
for you

beyond the mist of winters stone cold breath
beyond the brittle forms of longing
beyond the brazen neon of midnight's gaze

I will be there
waiting
for you

when the walls comes crashing down
and every brick feels like
the weight of the world
don't give up

when the darkness swallows you
and the moonlight vanishes
behind those clouds
don't give up

when you feel all is lost
and you are lost in it
whatever 'it' is
don't give up

when the people round you
hold out their arms, embrace it
they are not your enemy
don't give up

when no-one hears your tears
or your silent midnight screams
don't assume you are alone
don't give up

when the love has run dry
and it seems like a barren ocean
you are not alone, reach out
don't give up

you are strong, stay strong, be strong
if not for them, the kids or anything else
then for you
don't give up

you are a shinning star in this world
I know, I am there right now
and like you Im fighting
don't give up

be the voice, be the action,
make it happen, it is in you
and you will survive
don't give up

I am but a voice in the darkness
you don't know me but I say this
with all my soul and being
don't give up

Please, for the love of God
or whatever you want to call it

Don't give up.

your arms are the rivers
that channel my waters
awash in blush and quiver

trace the contours of skin
back to the ****** source
and where this all begins

sheltered from the morning light
her heart beat races
changing faces
storms rising
from strange places

some would say:
seek out change
emotion re-arranged
introspection born from sorrow
holding onto the memory
of yesterday
cupped in breath
of tomorrow.

lost in the garden
of beautiful flowers
rising to meet the dawn chorus

the tides of reason
and synchronised breathing
devoid of reason
no need for meaning

senses linger
the emotions are porous
like monsoon raindrops
clad in storm cloud towers

she mirrors in reflections
of her milky white skin
and the amorous eyes
and Loki's broad grin

lead the Viking
to the valley of shadow
the heaving breast
of the raven haired siren
sheathed in wanton desires
the beckoning of lust
and the follies of jest
the arcane pleasures of sin
pressed ****** to ******
upon his battle torn chest

leaves little to the imagination
the ravages of the beast within
graced with the fingertips
of a females caress
lest it not be forgotten
amid the gamut of time
and the crimson red lips
dripping with the juices
of the ***** of her King.