In the thicka the Perth Road's pretence
millin aboot the fustian
o the ald "Hunter S." basement
(cuz there's nae Scottish writers ti name a pub efter)

cap scrapin the ceilin
Bohemian Monk Machine
gettin set on the tiny stage fir a bit o
funk-jazz-sumin-or-other

a hud ti step ootside
wee bit o fresh smoke
a few lads sauntered past in thir
designer gear an zirconian ears

"let's go in here -
nah, am no into country music"

it's ca'd Maker now but
ah it maks me is restless

so many once here
have now disappeared
long gone into the white

rambled and veered
on to paths unclear
faded from all sight

their bark was their bite
but this dark toothless blight
has quickly 'come revered

so we write
that we might be a light tonight
in lieu of the disappeared

It's the burst lip
slowly healed with tongues
softly
aching
warm as the sun

It's the grinning tooth
making incisions
sharp
through the heart
of its chosen victim

It's the once empty mouth
compelled to devour
the words in-between
the speaking in vowels

It's the voice that calls
before it's too late
the one
you always tell to wait

the engineers have left the building
architects now rule the roost
nothing gets made but there's plenty
tilting and cooing over the perfect view