Daring, dragon skinned painter of poets,
does your work weigh heavy on your old heart?
Does Glasgow reflect in you, the ugliness,
beauty, passion, and apathy you see in her?
Has hell swallowed us, deep down the gullet?
Did it spit us back out for being too foul?
Is this city too pitiful? Too proud?
The city of the future need sutures;
the people are tearing each other at the limbs.
Hate’s been brewing like a storm over the hills,
and’s about to come whip us into a frenzy.
Whatever time you have left, is there time left for us?
Can you hold up your unflattering mirror once more?

I'd like a sof- boiled Brexit so I can dip in my soldiers.
My Granny wants a hard-boiled to challenge her dentures.
I've not heard many calls for scrambled,
though that may be how they end up.
Or we could fry them until they leap for the fire.

The crowd moves without murmurs.
You don’t know when it started.
But you remember the day
you packed your bags and joined them.

The crowd moves without murmurs.
No one knows where to anymore,
they remember or misremember
old tales of the light that had opened up in the sky.

The crowd moves without murmurs
like cattle being led to their slaughter;
a beautiful and glorious death awaits.
Old tales of the light set to swallow us one by one.

Someone starts speaking:
‘ I’m sick of waiting in line for this.’
‘ It’s a sham’
‘ It’s a heaven you blasphemous fools’
‘ It’s a sham. Wake up. You’re living in darkness.’

The crowd moves on, as conversations break off.
Some break off into different directions.
Most continue to wait in line, moving slowly.
You don’t know which way to go.

Morning comes like a friend up the drive
to clean the mess the night had left.
Bright eyed, full of life, ready to help.
Sometimes he makes me feel like ****.
Can't he give it a rest for one day?

I was a fireman and an action-man
when I was on my father’s knee.
I was a footballer and a fighter
when I walked through the school gates.
For a time I was a film star, a photographer,
an artist, a famous poet wooing woman.
Then I was a politician, a prisoner, a puppeteer,
a mad-man, a psychiatrist, a nurse.
Now I’m wondering who I am
and what that man should be.

I told you I was ill.
You told me I was mad.

I told you I was sick.
You told me 'take a few'.

I told you they don't work.
You told me 'stay the course'.

I told you they don't work.
You said we'll up the dose.

She’s my fuzzy love,
my medicated mornings
that roll over, turn in, turn out,
and spin my stomach
til’ he falls out with my head.
She is not sorry.
No diazepam apology
ever graced my ears.
No beta-block bargaining,
No fluoxetine forgiveness.
She’s cold and hard
but soft when I need support-
I fall right through
her flimsy grasp.
She’ll tell me she misses me
as she comes up with my *****.
She says she wants a break
when I swallow her.

One time I crushed her and sniffed her.

One time I drowned her in whisky.

One time I sprinkled her like seasoning.

She ****** me every time.