"scratcher" poems
Ah wuz lookin oot o' mah winder and ah saw this lad
wi' a barry wee lassie gaun' up the hill.
-Wair the **** d'ye think you're gaun tae? ah yells oot.
But the daft ***** didnae answer at aww,
must've been oot o' thir ****** heids wi' E's or summat,
d'ye ken what ah'm tellin' ye,ye daft radge?
-Wair ye're ******* going? ah yells a couple mair times
and finally the gadge yells back to ays,
-Up the ******* hill tae fetch a pail o' ******* watter,
me Ma's hud her fuckin' taps turned oaf by the fuckin' Corporation,
which is a ******* pain in the erse ah had ter agree.
I realised ah knew the wee **** Jack but,
eh wuz an auld classmate of ays and eh's hung oot wi' ma brar n me,
when we wuz bairns oan the Scheme,eh?
-That's a bonny wee lassie ye've goat wi' ye, there Jack, ah yelled,
thinking ah'd nae kick her oot o' mah scratcher
withoot gi'ing her a guid ride.
Ah huvtae sey ah recognised hir as a wee ****
called Jill from the Scheme, a right tidy wee ride
in mah opinion wi' a guid little ***** on hir, as ah recall.
-Mind ye're own fuckin' business, the **** yells back at ays,
takin' the pail in yin hand and the hoor's wee hand in the other yin.
Ah can tell ye ah totally pished meself wi' laughter
when the pair o' they wide ***** fell doon,
Jack breakin' his fuckin' croon n the groond,
ah'm sure he nivver meant it tae happen,
'n eh mustae squashed his ******* bawws
as eh fell doon n aww from the wey he screamed oot,
but the wee lassie cam tumbling doon the ****** hill n aww,
heid n **** oor her fuckin' erse
'n ah could see she wasnae wearin' any ****** *******
'n her ***** was on display under her skirt.
Ah wouldnae expect anything else from a wee hoor,eh?
-Dinnae worry, ah'll com and help ye, ah called oot,
but when ah goat thir, both o them wis deid,
ah thoat o' gittin mah hole wi' the deid lassie n aww,
but you shouldnae dae that, it's no respectful tae wimmin,
'n eywis, the polis might trace me through the DNA,
those ***** are clivvir 'n aw, ye ken.
So ah contented mesel' wi' rummidging through the poakits
o' the lad's jaykit tae see if eh hud ehs payment from the Joab Centre,
but the daft **** mustae spent it aww on a boatil or two o Grants,
ah ken ah'd hae done the same mahsel'.
And there wasnae a penny in the lassie's purse,
so ah thoat ah'd jus' **** oaf doon the ******
'n ask some **** tae call the hoaspital and the ****** polis.
Eh?
Dec 16, 2014
Dec 16, 2014 at 7:34 AM UTC
She sat on her bed
looking out the window.
Hannah looked at
the fulling rain.
Her mother passed by
the bedroom door
and looked in.
Whit ur ye daein'?
Her mother said.
Looking at the rain,
Hannah replied.
Ye can help me
wi' the washin',
her mother said.
Do I have to help
with the washing?
Her mother stared
at her
Whit ur ye
waitin' fur?
I'm waiting
for Benedict,
Hannah said,
gazing at her
mother's stern gaze.
O heem th'
sassenach loon,
her mother said
and walked off
down the passage.
Hannah waited.
She'd was pushing
her manners close
to the limits.
Once upon a time
her mother would
have slapped her
behind for talking so,
but now at 12 years
old her mother dithered
and set her tongue
to work instead.
She eyed the rain
running down the glass.
She could hear
her mother in the kitchen
banging pots and pans.
Then a knock at the door.
Benedict no doubt.
Gie th' duir, Hannah,
her mother bellowed.
Hannah went to the door
and let Benedict in.
He was wet, his hair
clung to his head
and his clothes were damp.
Got caught
in the downpour,
he said,
shaking his head.
Hannah smiled.
I'll get you a towel
to dry your hair,
she said.
She got him a towel
from the cupboard
and he began
to rub his hair.
We can't go out in this,
Hannah said,
have to stay here
and we can play games.
He rubbed his hair dry,
took off his wet coat
and stood by her bed.
What games?
he said.
Ludo? Chess?
Draughts? She suggested.
Her mother came back
to the door of the bedroom.
Ye swatch dreich,
the mother said,
eyeing Benedict.
He looked at Mrs Scot
and then at Hannah.
Mum said you look drenched,
Hannah said.
O right, yes, I am,
he replied and smiled.
Mrs Scot didn't
smile back.
Dornt sit oan
th' scratcher,
Mrs Scot said icily.
Mum said don't sit
on the bed,
Hannah said.
Mrs Scot went
off muttering.
Where shall I sit?
He asked.
We'll sit on the floor,
Hannah said,
and play chess.
He nodded his head,
his quiff of hair
in a damp mess.
Jun 19, 2015
Jun 19, 2015 at 1:35 AM UTC
If the shackles of the bouldering social structures collapse then the stores are closed for winter. Sandy can wear last month’s Louis.
If the whole world allowed us in then you shouldn’t have procrastinated poisoning the fluorescence.
If you open the worn pages of time then you won’t die alone.
Not enough, huh?
Steely Dan the doctor Frankenstein.
“I cried when I wrote this song. Sue me if I play too long,”
Compost dreams so not long-gone?
If you have to **** yourself, then Paris becomes your drug.
Why would I intervene an ungrateful brat?
Don’t know if your veins will end up my perfect quill but if I have lose musical chairs to my father I will get you that spotlight *********
May 5, 2015
May 5, 2015 at 4:38 PM UTC
Hannah lies
her collection of knives
on her bed
most given
by her father
-the largest
an SS knife
he took off a dead
SS man-
her mother
passing by
her open door
says
whit hae ye
those kni'es
oan yer scratcher fur?
I'm showing Benedict
my collection
Hannah replies
O heem
th' sassenach loon
Mrs Scott says
he's nice
Hannah says
and he likes knives
and guns
and he's interested
in seeing them
sae ye say
her mother says
and walks away
to the kitchen
Hannah sits
on her bed
and waits for Benedict
to arrive
she likes
the SS knife best
it has a kind
of haunting feel
about it
the door knocker bangs
gie th' duir
Hannah
it's th' loon
so Hannah goes
to the door
and Benedict
stands there
come in and see
Hannah says
so Benedict follows her
into her bedroom
here's my collection
she says
showing him
the knives spread
on her bed
he picks up a knife
or two and weighs
them in the palm
of his hand
and feels along
the blade
he picks out
the SS knife
and says
deadly thing this
have you one?
she asks
no I have a flick knife
my uncle gave me
he puts the SS knife
down on the bed
fine collection
he says
and they both sit
on the bed
near the knives
at the one end
Mrs Scott walks by
and stops and says
waur ye sittin'
oan th' scratcher?
just sitting and looking
at the knives
Hannah says
nae oan th' scratcher
her mother replies
Benedict looks puzzled
and Hannah says
she doesn't want us
sitting on the bed
Benedict nods his head
and says
o right
and looks at Mrs Scott
who stares at him
sternly and walks off
something I said?
he asks
no
Hannah says
she doesn't trust us
sitting on the bed
why is that?
he says
God knows
Hannah replies
hearing her mother
cursing in the kitchen
like a buzz of flies.
May 30, 2015
May 30, 2015 at 4:56 PM UTC
Man sometimes I wonder
would I be better
with a ... yes with a
bag of chips in my hand
Would birds flock to me
or **** on me
give me a tip
about my bag of chips
Some are succulent
some rather greasy
some chips crisp
it's so easy peasy
Bag of chips poets
or something more profound
my sweet chick a dee's
maybe a **** scratcher
(Then wash your hands)
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
May 21, 2014
May 21, 2014 at 7:44 AM UTC
A cabin
Two small rooms off grid
All I will ever need
No TV or radio
Just a a small dog at my feet
Mollie
A note pad and a bottle of ink
With an old fashioned scratcher pen
,(because so few now know how to write)
But all I need are the sound capped waves
To make me realize what life's about
Oct 7, 2015
Oct 7, 2015 at 4:03 PM UTC
Sae whit did ye dae?
Hannah's mother asked
when Hannah returned
from swimming with Benny
ah went swimmin'
Hannah replied
so where's he noo?
her mother said
looking past
her daughter's head
he's in th' cludgie
Hannah said
what's the' matter
wi' heem?
her mother said frowning
he's havin' a ***
Hannah replied
whit ur ye dae efter?
her mother said
Benny came out
of the toilet
and stood by Hannah
everything all right?
he asked
never better
Hannah said
come on
let's go in my room
and I can show you
the new knife
my dad got me
whit ur ye daein'?
Mrs Scot said
we're going to my room
and I'm showing
Benny my new knife
Hannah said
weel dornt sit
oan th' scratcher
she said moodily
and walked off
to the kitchen
Benny and Hannah
went to her bedroom
and closed the door
I see your mum's
her usual happy self
Benny said quietly
o don't mind her
her bark is as bad
as her bite
and Hannah laughed
sit down
and I'll show you
the knife
but your mum said
not to sit on the bed
Benny said
what she can't see
won't hurt her
Hannah said
Benny watched her
as she went to a drawer
and sorted amongst
many knives
many of which
he'd seen before
there was a knock
at the door
whit ur ye tois daein'?
Mrs Scot said
I'm showing Benny something
Hannah replied
Mrs Scot walked off
and said nothing more
that'll get her thinking
Hannah said smiling
thinking about what?
Benny said
never mind
about what
if it gets her thinking
it's a good thing
Hannah said
sitting beside Benny
showing him
the new knife
on her single
bouncy bed.
Nov 12, 2015
Nov 12, 2015 at 3:14 AM UTC
I'm holding out for something true
for the one who really thinks
I'm not too loud or sassy
and my thighs, they aren't too big
who doesn't see my belly
or think I'm a walking growth spurt stretch mark
or that my hair is never right
and I wear yesterdays makeup today
I know there's someone out there
who doesn't think I talk too much
and values my opinions
who also thinks I'm smart
I'm waiting for the one
I guess they call him Mr. Right
to help me up when I'm down
not down me for my plight
who wants to be with me clothed
as much as when we're not
who sees me as an equal
more than just a back scratcher to reach that itchy spot
I'm holding out for the real thing
that lasts past Saturday night
for the drum beat to my melody
for the fire to my light
Nov 26, 2015
Nov 26, 2015 at 2:48 AM UTC
I'm having doubts again. See, I don't last very long with a good thing before I overthink and over analyze and over anticipate and overwhelm and suddenly it's a poison that's eating me alive. I felt alive and that was all that mattered, feeling love and loved at last, after time and time again where my heart and brain teamed up to destroy my iridescent hope and it was so good that I didn't even see the flaws, looked through them like glass. Except now, his glass is half empty-- but only for a split second before its half full and then totally full-- and he's not a mean drunk but he drinks so ******* much that it makes me sick and I'm sick of my own hypocrisy because God knows I drink more than I should but I'm not throwing my life away with every shot. I know we have a shot at fixing our problems before I let this love spiral down the drain but I just can't seem to make it out alive because self sabotage is so much easier. Maybe I should stop looking around, maybe I should wear blinders when I walk so I don't see potential replacements with "no flaws" and of course I know they're all flawed but... But... I didn't lose my train of thought I lost my conscience because how can I look elsewhere? I spent so much time wishing I would be loved back and now that I am I want nothing more than the freedom of watching a different back walk out my door whenever I want. It's just a real chin-scratcher, how on one hand I want forever with him-- his drinking problem and his floppy hair and his long distance and his standoffish-ness-- but on the other I want out.
Mar 11, 2016
Mar 11, 2016 at 2:28 PM UTC
Depression suffocates it's victims.
It engulfs their thoughts with nothing less
than the repetitive deafening drumming
that have been put on display through the
art work on my wrists.
'Oh no it's my cat, he's a scratcher'.
They look at me with pity in their eyes.
Stop it.
Stop looking down at me like a lost girl who needs guidance,
like a stupid girl who needs to pop a pill to make her smile.
I'm no clown,
I don't feel the need to draw on a smile.
As if I'd believe my own pathetic excuses.
But do you truly realise what agony my own soul is feeling?
Do you know I open my skin up to release my demons?
Do you know I cry to cleanse my body of the holy water I surely do not deserve.
Skin and bones.
Scarred and fragile.
I sit in a room full of boisterous people
still feeling like part of the wallpaper.
Still feeling like the transparent vase amidst the
decorated clay pots.
The colour of my life has been stripped back to the bare
blacks and whites.
Jan 25, 2015
Jan 25, 2015 at 5:41 PM UTC
This is where we met,
said Lindsay, this cafe,
Kirsteen over by that
window seat, eyes down,
holding a cup of coffee,
thin fingers around it,
I eyed her, at first sight
I was drawn to her, aam
Lindsay fa ur ye? I said
sitting beside her, she
raised her head and stared
at me, what's it tae ye?
she said, I gazed at her
not giving in, ye swatch
nae weel, I said, buck aff,
she said, her eyes focused
on me, I liked her even more,
her eyes , her features, the way
she sat fiery, hoo abit comin'
haem wi' me fur a bite tae eat?
she stared at me, her eyes wild,
yet softening, what's in it fur ye?
she said, I've a braw scratcher,
I said, a bed? she said, I nodded,
she smiled, so I took her home
to my place and we ate and drank
and made love, and been together
ever since, that day to this, ***
passion and of course the kiss.
Dec 21, 2015
Dec 21, 2015 at 3:21 PM UTC
You came to me an empty shell. Or so you said. Your mask, your fake, your facade insidious with disregard. Take me take me take my broken spirit.....such an easy target....Kitchen Radio providing the soundtrack for the beginning of the end. The end of chances to be the center of someone's universe. Mr. Kirby and Ralph can attest: I was just a target....a country to be conquered. No war torn ruins for you to lord over. The only kingdom you rule is regret. Shine on with your patina of tarnished deeds. Let your isolation feed your lonliness..... so desperately sad that no heart is safe from your wrath. Blow upon blow-your words and silence each a fist for your fix. Your love a poison without cure......like Midas with no use for gold.
Nov 11, 2014
Nov 11, 2014 at 11:47 PM UTC
By: Cedric McClester
This ain’t another American Pie
Where the story’s protagonists happens to die
This is more a question of wondering why
Equal justice in most cases isn’t applied
Every time an unarmed victim is killed by a cop
Whose response to the circumstance is over the top
You can hear as the bullets go pop pop pop
It’s a head scratcher wondering will it ever stop
It’s a head scratcher
Why those headlines staring at cha
Always seems to catch cha
By complete surprise
It’s a mind-bender
Why the public’s defender
Always seems to surrender
When it comes to those guys
Some prove the lie
By trying to apply a religion they deny
As the reason why
The innocent must die
‘Cos if they took a look
Their own Holy Book
Condemns the actions that they took
So in hell they’re gonna cook
It’s a head scratcher
Why those headlines staring at cha
Always seems to catch cha
By complete surprise
It’s a mind-bender
Why the public’s defender
Always seems to surrender
When it comes to those guys
He’s guilty on all counts
Which logically amounts
If the jurors choose to pounce
To death with no discounts
He deserves to die
And it’s obvious why
If he’s gonna have to fry
It’s too late for him to cry
It’s a head scratcher
Why those headlines staring at cha
Always seems to catch cha
By complete surprise
It’s a mind-bender
Why the public’s defender
Always seems to surrender
When it comes to those guys
(c) Copyright 2015, Cedric McClester. All rights reserved.
Apr 23, 2015
Apr 23, 2015 at 8:09 AM UTC
By: Cedric McClester
This ain’t another American Pie
Where the story’s protagonists happens to die
This is more a question of wondering why
Equal justice in most cases isn’t applied
Every time an unarmed victim is killed by a cop
Whose response to the circumstance is over the top
You can hear as the bullets go pop pop pop
It’s a head scratcher wondering will it ever stop
It’s a head scratcher
Why those headlines staring at cha
Always seems to catch cha
By complete surprise
It’s a mind-bender
Why the public’s defender
Always seems to surrender
When it comes to those guys
Some prove the lie
By trying to apply a religion they deny
As the reason why
The innocent must die
‘Cos if they took a look
Their own Holy Book
Condemns the actions that they took
So in hell they’re gonna cook
It’s a head scratcher
Why those headlines staring at cha
Always seems to catch cha
By complete surprise
It’s a mind-bender
Why the public’s defender
Always seems to surrender
When it comes to those guys
He’s guilty on all counts
Which logically amounts
If the jurors choose to pounce
To death with no discounts
He deserves to die
And it’s obvious why
If he’s gonna have to fry
It’s too late for him to cry
It’s a head scratcher
Why those headlines staring at cha
Always seems to catch cha
By complete surprise
It’s a mind-bender
Why the public’s defender
Always seems to surrender
When it comes to those guys
Thanks to the rapper Jay-Z
Who doesn’t want us streaming free
We won’t be able to ya see
If we wanna hear Queen B
Or that girl Rihanna
(c) Copyright 2015, Cedric McClester. All rights reserved.
Apr 23, 2015
Apr 23, 2015 at 8:07 AM UTC
I knock
on Hannah's
parent's door,
rain spitting down,
the morning air fresh
and lung biting.
Mrs Scot opens
the door:
O it's ye,
she says,
eyebrows rising,
eyes peering at me
hawk-like.
I've come
to see Hannah,
I say.
Ah didne hink
ye came tae
see me,
she says,
moving back
to allow me
to pass by.
I pass her by
like a mouse
passing a cat,
my eyes sidewards
gazing at her,
and moving past
as quick
as I can.
She closes
the door
and calls:
th' boy's haur,
gie it ay scratcher.
She indicates I go
into the lounge,
I do and sit down.
HANNAH!
She bellows.
She goes off
to the kitchen,
and I look around
the room.
Just coming,
won't be long,
Hannah says
from her bedroom.
Her mother says
something
incomprehensible,
and then all is quiet,
except for the ticking
of a clock.
The curtains
are drawn back
allowing light
to enter the room
(providing
it has wiped its
feet first
bringing
Dylan Thomas
to mind).
The picture
of a kilted man
stares at me.
He has big eyebrows
like dark caterpillars.
On the mantelshelf
is a photograph
of Hannah
and her parents
and her brother
who is away.
The bedroom doors opens
and Hannah appears.
Hello,
she says,
I overslept,
just going
for a wash,
and she is gone.
Dornt be lang,
her mother says.
Be quick
as Ah can,
Hannah calls back.
Water runs,
splash, splash.
She's a lazy huir,
her mother says,
coming into
the lounge,
holding a cup
and saucer of tea
for me,
puts it down,
smiles
the thinnest
lip smile,
then goes again.
Outside,
as I look through
the window,
is heavy rain.
Sep 30, 2016
Sep 30, 2016 at 3:27 AM UTC
*Dig a quarter acre pond , keep it filled with clean , aerated water
and small fish will appear on their own before three summers have passed , I kid you not* ....
Oct 8, 2016
Oct 8, 2016 at 10:40 PM UTC
I am from the motherland
But live in the land of the so called free
Where people sting me with harsh misunderstandings of Africa
Treat me like the dirt under their shoes bc they were not used to the continent of pure gold
I was abused with words like African ***** scratcher you so pretty to be african and *****
That left me with wounds that made me
become ashamed of myself and hate my roots
But as I got older I watered them
realized that being from the motherland
Is a gift
That people didint need to open and analyze and form an hypothesis for
Stereotypes has been thrown at me but I took the pain
And found a way to make I can make a change
Africa is going to be the gold I will mine
I will Help find education stop poverty and end corruption
Than the aliens would not abuse us with their stereotypes or ignorance
There is always gonna be a spotlight for the darker skin
Bc without us what is a skin color of beauty
Aug 3, 2018
Aug 3, 2018 at 2:59 PM UTC