Apon tha roll O' tha pagan's dream
As it leaps an' boun's apon tha mental stream
Flowing doon intae tha cordons o' solitaire
Near tha brigs O' tha banks O' Bonnie Ayr.

Tha whispering Hazel catches huld tha tune
Echoing tha mysteries a' tha wae tae Troon
As a glimmer O' lichtning crosses tha Sky
He, tha ancient an' grand Wizard stoans apon Carrick high.

Configurations an' transformations by god
Far ayond tha concepts o' tha blunnering sod
Catch hold Lad tha spirit as it flees past ye
Heading oot taewards Arran across tha sea.

Does no tha Seagull scream tae enchant tha ******
an' the win' blaws like some evil melody played by a Demon
An' dinnie wait tae lang tae grasp tha chain
O' life's faithful given, tha Barley, Wheat an' Grain.

But come see tha Mither apon her Earth filled seat
As tae tha wonnerous farmer She bows tae Greet
That apon tha Seasons O' echoed fate they may come tae restore
Tha True religion O' this land, O' this flaming shore.

Nue listen an' be quite till pass a' hoors break
an' bin' ye thagither tha dreams an' thouchts that ye take
an' cast it a' apon tha Fires O' Beltanes torch
Tae watch as tha flames reach higher an' higher, tha heevens tae scorch.

Alisdaire O'Caoimph

When the chickens come to town,
do not smile,
do not frown,
sacrafice Mrs Hicken,
sacrafice Mr Dicken,
run away from the chickens,
jump away from the zickens.

When the chickens jump up and down,
do not abreviate,
do not noun.
sacrafice Mrs Houn,
sacrafice Mr Boun,
run away from the ground,
try to not, make a sound.

When the chickens fall from the sky,
do not winge,
do not cry,
sacrafice Mrs Dye,
sacrafice Mr McKye,
duck away from the sky,
no billy, you can not fly.

When the sky, starts to fall out chickens,
not do slow,
not do quicken,
Mrs Sacrafice you will dicken,
Mr Sacrafice you will sicken,
sky away, from the stabbin'
die away, from the kebabin'.

rows of two!-three!-four!-boys-bloc-king-the-cor-rid-or
will soon be gone
and the RHYTH-mic-tick-tock-of-my-leg-BOUN-cing-on-the-floor
will be no more
it's fresh cadavers wrapped in string
it is a joyful gospel hymn
mourning the best and worst of youth
(those shiny kids who'd first walked in
with all the grace and all the poise
of hatched arachnids missing limbs)

but what of "her" – you know her name –
that overfed, reptilian thing
who shed her hair and scratched her skin,
cursing the odds at Him upstairs, demanding He re-shape her?

some say she cried herself into extinction
– sailed away on a crimson tide –
balking at the trauma of being seen
(enforced, cursed vulnerability
in being known to man).

the rest knew better;
they were voyeurs in this
fruit-carving tutorial
on 'how to grow up':

STEP 1) consider all other alternatives
2) take the scalpel and initiative
3) before adrenaline gives way to doubt,
turn the flesh-vessel inside out in a cocoon of your own creation!
while organs may rupture and it aches like you've skinned yourself alive (good for her, setting herself free!) you'll look cuter in the class photos and has you-know-who... finally... shifted the weight?
4) breathe through the blood loss and searing pain
5) notice
           you
                can
                     breathe again.
                     at this point, does it matter that it aches?

Thy rose rots, ami'st my feet an' the door,
Pleading, the fragrance its to be sucketh an' bitter wine pour,
Blisters dropp'th from thy swirlin' shore,
Boun'less pain stabbeth me more,
Thy gift'd feather, thy ink pouch, leather,
Those symphonies maketh me smile, no more,
Beneath the cores de pumping meat, I solemnly adore,
Curious stem o' rotten rose whispereth,
Thy reminiscences under my chest crawleth,
Mysterious reas'n attracteth thy death.

I said it before.
But i didnt explain.
The complexity of my words.
What did i say?
"My tears are like knives
And im crying all over my body
Ive got scars all over"
See i wasnt lying.
My cheeks look like a cuttingboard.
Each time my body gets cut open
My blood runs black.
It oozes through my veins, and out to the ground.
I am not to be understood.
Like one runs into a train
The roads so similiar
But wind up here,
On this one tear.
These tears that cut,
Are like unopenable doors that shut.
The wind up closes,
As my final thoughts choose to vanish.
These tears
These knives
Prove often to be poetic
Because i often write about the scars.
I often write about my pain
but my silence echoes.
Bouncing
Bouncin
Bounci
Bounc
Boun
Bou
Bo
B.
*silence