The same that had fallen into and through ‘Alisdair’s' pocket.  
The key. The key. Where has it fallen? I’ll scour the place.
I have fallen through this world for it. Now I lay at the bottom.
For amidst my lack of bright wit, with which I did fall.  
I often thought I’d found it. Something to free me, all
but free from everything to a solvable small problem.  
But the bottom is bottomless, as it often was above.
I’ll scour this fallen city, till I’m sour, to find young pity.

She fell into my lap. With the key around her neck.
Not out of nowhere, nor from above or below.
But fell none the less. And so of course I had to check.
I pinched myself twice, but she still lay staring deeply
into my eyes as until her eyes turned sleepily.
And then creepily I wandered through her head while she slept.

Nothing is a balloon before and after popping.
Nonsense.
Yes.
Quite so.
Nothing is a ball before and after its kicking.
Genius.
Yes.
Quite so.

Here stands the ghost of a hopeless man;
he’s got scratches on his neck and blood on his hands,
and eyes that cry ten different commands.
He says "as the rose grows it causes problems with romance”,
and yet he stands before me with a bouquet in his hands,
and I say “ Why do you pick them apart?
                        He says “ because I can”.

Forget your love me’s and your love me nots,
I’ll leave you to rot. Remove your mind from it shop.
Im telling you stop.

IS this your tongue twisted round breath from blackened lungs?
Your foul words betray you when you stare down the eye.
I see your nights spent wishing, missing the moments behind you.
But where do I find you? Where in this mess of the masses stress?
You don’t seem to peek from the pockets of your bleak cites.
Nor do you dwell among the sad caves of young pity.
Hit me! Hit me! Like an apple on my head. Hit me!
I need to find you even if what I find is already dead.

We can revive this. Life might flow through us once again.
The pen, as a weapon, once more is being used to defend
The will of times killer,  while the crowds wish him condemned.
We can and will fight for the pride of the distasteful tongues,  
the wasteful young, the collapsing lungs that coughed last words
As they were lead to be hung for the killing of time. Just as the bell rung.

If we’ve got anything. Anything at all.
Anything at all. We’ve got issues.  

If we’ve got anything. Anything at all.
Anything at all. We’ve got issues.

You can take your time so take it.
You can take your time so take it.

She had a tears before bedtime twinkle in her eye,
and a don't come too close shimmy in her shake.
He had a predatory grin salivating through the teeth
and hands that knew no jurisdiction.

He put a forget me tomorrow at the bottom of a drink
and handed her it to her like it was wrapped in a bow.
She sipped through her straw with a delicate smile,
all the while wishing she could go home.

She was bagged into a taxi at the stroke of two
by the boy with the bullying hands.
She was passed out on his couch when the morning came
while he slept in the scene of his crime.

I had found myself lost.
Wandering in circles
and mumbling madly to himself.  
So I took him back home,
bathed him, and tucked him in for the night.

The words I speak are scared of my tongue.
They feel deceived, caught, strung.
They have meaning, rooted as an elderly tree.
But they cannot control their speaker,
and such a sickly, twisted speaker as me.

I asked the bar man for a pint of patience.
He said I'd have to wait in line.
So I waited till he wisnae facing,
and then I bumped two bottles of wine.

Riddled ramblings on and on.
Oh, how I know it can get so tiresome.
But these young tongues like to waggle
when the clock strikes quarter past
who gives a **** anymore.
When blurry moments ring for hours,
and glasses empty and fill themselves,
and piped up people **** confidence
until they remember their ***** training
and sit back down like dogs
who have disappointed their owner.  
Then, five seconds, minutes or hours later:
Bump. Bump. Line. Line.
And once again they've got a spine.

I am forever understanding
that I will often fail to do so;
more and more I learn
what I will never truly know.

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?

An Empty carton is sitting in my fridge.
It’s been lurking there on the shelves edge.
It’s the only thing that is in my fridge.  

There’s a fiver in my wallet, coppers in the couch,
maybe some euros from last year I could exchange.
I could always pawn another guitar, I guess.  

But something always stops me at the door.

So, I’ve been taking my coffee black.

My home has started to whine like a lost pup.
The doors cry open, windows yawn, and the taps sing
as widows drowning their sorrows.

It’s a pathetic harmony of melancholy.
It’s a laughable life if I say so myself;
and I do say so myself and to myself,

and I guess for myself, too.


But, at least, for now, there’s still black coffee.

My plan is not to have one.
My style it will not stay
trapped in another's method:
I separate and sway.

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.

It's all there
                                   Nothing.
Every last bit of it.

Yet we see
                                   Everything.

My Reality
                                  Everything

Your Reality
                                  Everything.

It's blue to me, It's blue to you.
But is it blue to me as it is to you?

You are here
                                I am here.

Sitting On A Separate Seats In A Shared Plane.

I am here

                              You are here.  

With Everything and Nothing. But Each Other

" For me, it makes sense to write nonsense"

I tried to try but my eyes fell heavy into my cheeks.
I am weak, a fallen freak who walks these streets
looking for the future in each turn, but never now do I seek.
Incomplete, I’m an embryo who doesn't want to develop.
I chase stars in the night sky as it falls and I it envelopes.
Though I cherish the downfall like within it there is pride.
I relish your sympathy until it’s intent falls on it side.
Theres no place for me to hide, At the bottom I unite,
with every kind of side of myself, and each I name fright.

The first fright is gentle he understands me better than I.
But his pity is passionless and so I watch his fire die.
Until the second fright turns and tells me I’m a fool.
This I understand though he does not understand me.
“You’re a shell of a boy” adds fright number three.
This I believe I know to be true. After all I cannot fool me & you.

Way hey! Way hey!
We slept through the day.
We missed the mayhem.
And it wasn't here to stay.

Our strife! Our Life!
Its over now its night.
We can bathe without light.
We can talk without spite.

"speak that i may see you".
The weak and the brutes do free you
to elevate to where they can’t see you.  

Yet I see all with clear view.
The bumps ahead we steer through.
Yet without the burden of knowledge

I fear you

All of you, all of me does envy.
All of me and all of you is plenty.
So all of me to all of you I lent thee.

Drink this cup and toast it to hearts
who long to taste the end just as it starts.

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.

A tree on a hill, sits on top of my eye-line.  
Its roots protrude out of the ground round my feet.
The leaves are swept up by the quietest of wind.  
And its trunk is encased in a cold concrete.

But cracking, splitting at the middle it looks weak.
If I could only take a step I would climb this hill.
Or see fully, not through cracks of my sight.
I would open the tree and rearrange its insides.

Oh if I could lift these heavy weights.
Snap the shackles of nature that are sure to trip me.
I’d run like a child, chasing the mild days of summer.
And sit on top of that hill, till my mother would miss me.

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 drank in the red skied morning before trying to step onto the busy street. The moon was still in the sky, my head was in the stomach of last night, and my feet were feet from the ground. I couldn’t walk on the street, rather I just floated along without physical effort and instead just a little mental encouragement. Then I arrived all of a sudden at the banks of there river. She was laughing frantically at the birds for trying to swim and I kept saying the same thing twice. Then we fell in.

We swam for a while before it dried. The sun had eaten the moon out the sky.  But we felt happy, ye know, close and that. It was a nice feeling.

I need to get right the **** out of here now!