Rusty nail by rusty nail the floors come down. Floor by floor
the old men of the old town slip away, and leave old shells
like the stone bread of Pompey. We board these windows
and bolt these doors and slate them in the young sun
for the hungry cranes, but I return in the twilight
of going home traffic when five o'clock lets loose blue collars
to fumble through the ruined rooms of time gone by,
I kick through our broken bricks. Their red dust stains
my shoes and wears on my cuffs. A hopeless hearth,
discarded news, a crippled doll with matted hair
and I all share the crumbling of the day, but only I
shall not remain come compline. Neither can I
pack these walls with me. So this is adieu
to former strongholds. To our old fidelity, adieu.
It is not fit to go forth less than brave, for
they built seven cities over Troy, seven worlds
not knowing where they stood so long the first
could not be said to be. The docks of Caesarea sleep
in the sea, and tourists sit for lunch
on the prone pillars
The pin fell out.
The pin fell out, so the bolt slipped,
Knocking the bottom of the arm
And the damn thing wouldn't open!
Fifteen hundred I payed — 105 for delivery and assembly,
But I didn't make space for them,
They couldn't lay it out, so they built it standing up.
The pin didn't get set right, so the pin fell out.
I fixed it. Once I figured it out. It wasn't hard,
though pretty hot, since early, the back broke the plug
and the AC died. I sweated all over the expensive wood,
Wiped it up with the towel I was just wearing
And so there I stood: drenched in sweat,
Frustrated and exhausted, rumpled and wet
Ready for my second shower in just as many hours
All because I had the audacity,
To try to go to sleep.
Govan bar banter:
Awa' with ye fankle eejits
that blether to naw whit they dinnae naw
each unto their ane
an' aye bin.
Tell markers scoured
an' crowned with glee
"alas nae blessing naw
bolt of wisdom
will er'e to
strike thee -
tis poor soil
an' loads o toil
an' broken backs"
Ach awa with ye!
Fir me the skies
an' tracks o wilds
an' winds that curl yer lugs
Hielan mountains glory
summers toty story
an' bonny lassies dancing -
a gallus stoater!
that’s fir me.
in Da’s laden jaiket
fir a dram
an' enough tae get the Clockwork Orange hame -
times hae changed a wee bit no?
tis seldom gained
an' aw the while
the wee bairns wail
Still, life is yin
what yin makes of that
which drives the world
that breaks yer back
ma banters free to give
an' thats all the mare important when
it costs so much tae live.
Cambridge is screaming
and as a result its throat is sore.
Everyone is every park and porch
stopped, looked and saw
the shot and killed on a Willow Street floor.
For a girl whom walked as if wind
over little river stream, murder
was the last thing that made her scream.
A thundering absence laid seldom slain
with a bolt of blood spelling innocent pain,
on porch-wood-decking painted cream green
salad leaf fresh, cut from the root with melded flesh.