Without Contraries...

WELCOME TO "SATAN IS BITING MY ANKLE".

 ON THIS SITE IS A SELECTION OF MY POETRY

Please enjoy and feel free to make comment...

 "At 40 I am no wiser than I was at half that age and just as confused as ever. I've never wanted anything more than the confusion. At the heart of this work there is both a cathartic process and an artistic élan inspired by the better craftsmen." - Craig Guthrie, 2010, The Living Room.



"As Mr Guthrie indicates, contraries, paradox and polarity drip through these words as they should through our souls. Certainty swings to uncertainty and back again, confidence can suddenly be replaced by fear, rapture by horror and subject matter buffers between the essential and the inane, giving the reader...
"...a fence separated the urban and the rural. Mr Guthrie grew up precariously balanced on top of that fence, perhaps this, in part explains the nature of his work during this period...
"...is perhaps my favourite living writer of English and one I would recommend to anyone." - King Ferdinand of Andreillé, in an interview given to "The Andreillé Examiner", March 13, 2012.

"Without contraries is no progression. Attraction and repulsion,

 reason and energy,

 love and hate,

 are necessary to human existence." - Blake.

My Work.

My work, I keep, for the hillside fire,

For the hillside fire,

Hillside fire,

My work, it flames on the hillside fire,

Along with Louis MacNeice.

My work, I abandon upon this mire,

My putrid choir,

 Of spent desire,

My work, it flames for no-one to see,

Except me, except me,

Except me.


-

The Tartan Scarf.

"No-one said anything to me,

No-one spoke,

Until a small boy looked up,

And angrily shouted,

'Stop glaring at me!'

Causing by accident,

To come into being,

The moment I realised,

 Just how threatening,

I hadn't become,"

Said the man,

 In the tartan scarf,

At the bus stop,

In the tartan scarf,

Next to the boy,

Who he no longer saw,

To the tartan woman,

Who looked away,

While he struggled to stand,

Next to the boy,

In his tartan Hell.

-

THIS URGE.

I have this urge,

To send out all my love,

And put it to a good beat,

Or make it rhyme,

But it doesn't.

None of it rhymes

And the rhythm it has,

Sticks and irritates,

Itches and throbs.

I have this urge,

To spit and smoke,

Drink and toke,

Profane and prod,

But the more I do,

The further from God,

I remain.

None of it makes sense,

None of it is adequate,

None of it fits in,

To the twelve-step antidote.

I have this urge,

That makes me twitch,

I have the urge

And I think it makes me alive,

Makes me human.

But I am wrong.

The urge only makes me desperate,

Despair,

And long,

For what I can't have,

Or what isn't there,

Or what I can't get,

Or what is already lost,

What is hopeless,

Or comes at too high a cost.



-

Reviews.

Select reviews on "Chef and I: Lyrical Salads and Literary Vandalism":

https://sites.google.com/site/literaryvandal/about-chef-and-i

Reviews Dec 2012 –

“Finally, a luddite blessed with elan.” – Gary Cunnard, “New Man’s Magazine World”

“I’m sure the author of Lyrical Salads will die in poverty. Not because it is unworthy, but because most men producing work of this quality tend to go unrecognised in their own lifetime and often die in their own filth.” – Maria Perez, “South American Contemporary Literary Review Magazine”

“How a man can be so Scottish, yet so “Not-Scottish” is beyond myself and every one of my colleagues here at the newspaper.” - Rabbie McGlashlin, “Auchterarder Gazette and Post”

“This is perhaps the most sexual book since Fifty shades of Grey” - Durna Thorpo, “Woman’s Hour”

“Depressing. Intelligent. Brilliant.” -  “Bloomfeldt’s Who’s Who of Modern Literature”

“If you don’t understand it, it must be good, and we challenge anyone to understand Mr Guthrie.” – Chi Chee Hun, “Japanese World”

“Utter shit.” – Dr LE Cowper, “Dunkeld University Press”

JUXTAPOSITION.

“Oh Daddy, dearest Daddy, Daddio,

Your peepers are like a bird’s eye view of two champagne flutes,

With a woodlouse in each,

Kicking its little legs like some frantic brown submarine floating on custard.”

“I had a bacon sandwich at two, you know?

And at three I put the cat away in the chest freezer.”

“Oh, Mister!” she groaned,

“The winds of wisdom run through your veins. You’ve experienced life

And now your breath smells like the ocean,

And your hands are dead jellyfish,

Hovering over Death’s rank potion.”

“I like Whole Nut, but I’m not very keen on Fruit and Nut… you know?”

“Oh Sir,” she said, “never have I seen such an arm – one which has swept aside all enemies and bore horizontal against the head which braved such storms as none survived and yet drove on, on, and on forth, stooping through the razor rapid sands and the wicked slicing rain of misfortune.”

“A Pot Noodle would go well with that. It may seem that a Pot Noodle doesn’t really go with anything, but a Pot Noodle would probably go well with that. Perhaps you should just tip one over the top of the whole thing. You know?”

“Good Lord, such grace and all your eternal alms paid.”

“The Post Office is shut and the Tele’s getting later every night. I've seen the lad that delivers it, smoking up at the bench. You can’t miss him with that big orange bag on. Anybody would think he was a young Patrick Swayze up there, with his bountiful hair slipped back and his pants tight on his hips and his slippershoes, probably searching his phone for football results and Strictly Come Dancing.

Would you like some potted hock or a packet of mini-Cheddars or something? No? Oh right enough, you just had something.” 

-

DOOR TO HELL

first pub. July 31, 2012, Poetry24.

The Door to Hell is burning like resentment every day,

Consuming every promise, every tender word I say,

And still The Door remains ablaze, enticing me its way.

With purpose and conviction, the flames which never rest,

Consume the very passion to which they do attest,

With the purpose and conviction I never have possessed.

The burning cavern endless deep with 80-meter span,

In desert Karakum was formed and left to burn by man,

This Door to Hell so ghastly pure devouring all it can.

For twenty years and twenty more this blazing, torrid well,

Has lit the way to agony consuming me to tell,

That one day soon I’ll gladly pass through burning Door to Hell.



-

Site Disabled

This site has been temporarily disabled by The International Board of Poetry and Prose Commissioners due to its provocative content and the consistent "depth" and "brilliance" of work which has been judged to present the possibility of considerable harm to the mass of unprepared readers and society at large. The uncensored content is currently being catalogued in The Historic Annals of Poetic Genius, which will only be accessible to authorised members. This decision has been taken to protect the minds of those vulnerable to confusion and aggression under the influence of literary "genius" and has been taken in the interests of the general public at large.

No charges have currently been lodged against Mr Guthrie.

Charles Dedalus, Chief Commissioner to the IBPPC.

-

SEWING

Learnt all about Jeanie Malloch today,

She sounded like a good friend,

I'm sorry to hear that she passed away,

Another stitch which won't mend.

-

Anticipated Distraction

Anticipated Distraction

Look out over the Pass,

Christ just look out over the Pass,

So that The Battle may commence,

And the Fiend behind the Fiend,

May Cease to Exist.

-

COLLEEN

Colleen. (first pub. by Poetry24 27/05/12)

I like Colleen in her blue bikini,

And she’d like me in my stripy beanie,

We'd have to keep our mouths shut tight,

In Andalucia all Saturday night,

Still all would be bliss until the next day,

When I'd demean her verbally,
 The most horrible way,

She’d throw a plate,
I would duck,

We’d laugh,
 Make up,

And go back to discussing Socratic method on the lawn.

-

Indifference

"Every blockhead who can jingle a few verses, neglects, in these enlightened days, the business for which he may happen to have been educated, for the purpose of following the idle and unprofitable trade of a poet... Some injudicious patron has... persuaded him that he is a genius: and, determined that his light shall be no longer hidden under a bushel, he prints and publishes. For the first volume, by dint of laborious personal application, he perhaps contrives to gather as many subscriptions (half-purchase-half-charity), as enable him to meet the expenses of his book. But before his second effort is ready, the wonder has ceased, and his volume attracts just as many readers as it deserves, and no more. Disappointment, of course, ensues: the genius considers himself a flower," - Anonymous reviewer, Literary Magnet (1827)

Indifference

What will us say

To us son,

When the day of judgement comes?

On the day of judgement?

What will us do

To us,

When us time has overrun?

When us time is spent.

Us sat upon a wounded knee,

And listened to a symphony,

Of all the men of straw and wood,

Hung from webs of neighbourhoods,

Whose mindless feet gave their excuse.

Protection masquerades as truth,

So raise us arms against the sun,

Us patrons of virtue.

Where will us go when he comes,

The fiend behind the fiend,

The fiend behind the -

How will us breathe when it turns,

When the wind changes

And the storm blows in.

Where will us look,

How will us look us in the eye,

After sitting pretty,

After us knocked us off the fence.

FUCK OFF, BRIAN

Fuck off, Brian,

Yer da'in ma heid in,

Get away tae fuck wi ye,

What are ye sayin'?

That ye dinnae understand the plot?

Ye fuckin stupit numpty,

Ye wouldnay ken a line fae a dot,

Ye fuckin garrulous cunt.

Fuck off Brian,

Ah've had enough o' ye,

Friend tae nane,

There's no nae nounce tae ye.

Ye cannae commit tae

Judgement or sense,

Yer happy tae sit

Oan yer rickity fence,

Ye fuckin garrulous cunt.

Well, fuck ye ye cunt,

Ye fanny,

Ye cock,

Coz athin hereafter'll,

Come as a shock.

Ah'm Brian,

Aye me,

Brian's ma name,

An it's me Ah've been tellin,

Tae fuck an tae blame,

For the soul Ah've been sellin -

An it's me,

That'll burn,

In eternal flame,

But fuck you, tae,

It'll dae ye good,

Coz ye'll still burn wi me,

In Hell, like ye should,

Ye fuckin garrulous cunt.

Lord, Throw These Chains from my Feet

Dark times saw Pluto forge the way,

Shooting through temporal visions to conceive,

Burn the brass away to say,

Here I stand, man without leave.

I cut the Path and sow the seed,

Which existed somewhere before

My provident lead

Only pointed to the shore.

I exist, new things come my way,

I persist, tomorrow shall be The Day.

Tomorrow is The Day,

The Sweet Lord takes these chains from my feet,

Tomorrow is the Day,

My Sweet Lord and I shall meet.

Each new thing interpret and translate,

Each new sensation moulded to a golden arrow

Which pierces the skin of each untamed fate,

And chooses each elysian field to lie fallow.

Follow on, dear crowd,

One's confidence,

Knows no bounds,

Onward, we shall be led,

Onward, unto the Heavenly Sounds.

The order of personal anarchy may not conceive,

To get lost in the senses, abandoning intellect,

Transcending vulgar mimesis

And adding to the weave,

- But wait, now,

- What? The audacity!

- You overtake me?

- Turn me in while I give you advice?

Well, onward and tomorrow,

My Sweet Lord shall throw these binds from me,

These restrictions and constrictions,

Which, protecting no-one,

Tomorrow I shall be free of.

Tomorrow is The Day,

The Sweet Lord takes these chains from my feet,

Tomorrow is the Day,

My Sweet Lord and I shall meet.

This Face I've Come to Know.

This face I've come to know,

Not the imperfect one which you perceive,

But a silhouette and more,

Framed in a Victorian window as twilight fades behind,

Soft shadows and gentle smile

And ankles under metaphors,

Just outside of view.

This face I've come to know,

Perfect, in every way,

Melt, melt me with knowledge

And ignorance,

Foreign mirror,

True Mercy.

This face I've come to know which bears no grudge,

No malice,  greed or pride, all death, all loss,

These eyes with no requirement to judge,

This soft mouth which leaves me at a loss.

This face I've come to know and spy upon

With every passion bursting from within,

Privee to the sway of Gods among,

Released of conscious self and free from sin.

This face which I observe from every side,

Stuns me into silence and regard,

Commands that lonely Jekyll turns to hide,

Transmogrifies the  heretic to bard,

Paints away distortions of the pride

And stretches tight the meaning of reward.

This face I've come to know has smiled,

Over head of our sweet child…

…To my Gratitude,

Under the pain of Loss,

And through the flesh of Weakness.

This face gazes with appropriate disdain,

Upon my grossness,

Put there,

By sufferable pain.

No Art can come close,

To this sensuous moment of recognition,

Which sets me free,

Relieves me of the weighty burden of life -

This face I've come to know -

This face who Created the Lord,

In sedated elation -

He who drifts away -

When you are gone.

ME AN THAT JOON

"For a'that, and a' that,

Their dignities, and a' that,

The pith o' Sense, and pride o' Worth,

Are higher rank than a' that." Burns, "Song: For a' that and a' that."

Me an That Joon. (First pub. by Poetry24 22/02/12)

Did ye hear aboot that Joon wha bides doon the Hull,
Sh’wiz foond dade this moarnin in a bath that was phul,
Mind, she went oot wi that hoodie that wiz intae that rap,
They got meltit th’gither an thieved fae the Gap.

Sh’wiz a bonnie lass afore a that,
Now she’s left that bairn alane in that flat,
She sung at the Kirk when she wiz jist a lassie,
Far creh fae th’day when her ehz turned ah glassy.

At the Highwayman, she sung like Whitney,
Efter watchin her faither aye dae Gene Pitney.
Och, sh’hid pipes like the wind through the heather,
An she eyewiz hid time fir a fag an a blether.

Anyweh, you get back tae Jeremeh Kyill,
Yer trackie’s near dreh and yer tea’s in a whyill,
Get back tae the news an shoutin at nations,
Flickin through blame while ye flick through the stations.

Aye, an spout the twa lines ye ken frae The Man,
But treh tae remember, Joon’s life’s doon the pan,
An a parcel o rogues?
Naah,
Jist mair moths tae the flame,
Coz Agnes is fillin her bath jist the same,
Droonin her troubles an burnin her hay,
As that stream in the backgroond just bubbles away.

Beyoncé’s Baby. (beat poetry)

Before Beyoncé had a baby,
Bailey bluffed Marcie,
Bud had nowhere to jack-up,
(Beat up, kicked out,
And strung-out nice,
He prayed to Bacchus,
Rocks and Ice)

Beyoncé had a baby,
Bailey found a
Hostel, Hostel,
Terrifying Hallstelz.

Marcie was cling-filming
Cider to reduce odour,
Whilst beneath his billet,
Bud noticed a white, shaking, blurry-ill
Walt Whitman, tremble in a mushroom trance,
Before Bailey undertook to say,
“You’re crushed and simple,
Emotional, desperate,
With the snakes in your stomach,” (Mexican accent)
Marcie – “…and you won’t take a stance,
I hate you Wepeel…” (Norwegian accent)
Bailey – “…but pity you, too,
For the Fate you seal…” (Dr Seuss)

And Bud thought,
“The Halls, cold Halls,
The terrible Hallstelz.”

Yes, Beyoncé bore a baby from her warm, wet, gelatinous snatch,
Or perhaps from a sharp incision it hatched.

And when she did,
Bud thought
“Yes!
Finally the chance,
To rise from this mess,
This semen-stained mattress,
With its hair and skin,
Diarrhoea, stomach cramps,
And craving sweat in.”

And Bud worked good and hard that night,
For a child was born and a star shone bright.

CONFINEMENT THEORY

"We are not concerned with the very poor. They are unthinkable, and only to be approached by the statistician or the poet." - Forster, Howards End.

CONFINEMENT THEORY

Dundee, Scumdee,
Naebdy kens yih like me.
Member when wyased tae write,
Black oan the sheds in the black o the night?

View the
Thick, black indelible Ssi-ay fae within?

View o the Law?
Better view fae the Sidlaws.

Well, ehh say “we” but eh didnae,
– Ehh never waanted tae damage naebody’s door,
W’wir eyewaz dancin oan the rooves,
Crackin ah the thin beams, wi resentful hooves,
Through the tar an felt on thae widden loack-ups,
That abody wiz sae proud tae oan,
An pentet regular wi thick green pent,
(Like Granda’s pent,
But he couldnae affoard ane,
Efter hayin tae
Hae the fear an the shits,
In a trench in France,
No maakin a fortune,
On some other cunt’s plants)
But kid barely affoard the council’s rent.
- Oh Aye, w’were eyewaz in yer back gairden,
Or oan yer rafe,
Laughin an stairin.

View Maggie's Dundee,
Well, eh say “we”, but you didnae,
Coz yi eyewaz kent how precaarious they structures were,
An yi eyewaz wyed up the odes o brackin a leg,
When ane o us fell through the boards.

W’wer content tae view,
Athin fae the auld railway line:
Kirton, Duglas,
The TOTH an the BOTH,
Whitfeelt, Fintry,
Lochee an ah they midden multis,
- Wha midden multis?
Yer granny bides thair.

Set yer peepers oan the Dundee
Denim an Leather scene,
Leather an Lace,
Staypress, Fred Perry,
NF jaicket an Martins,
Fortifehd wine, Merrydoon,
Voddie an peach brandy,
Green moansters, gut-fuckers,
Snakey-an-black an gee-un-tee wi a slice,
Nucleur brown, 80-shillin…
Oan an oan wi ah the fun…

W’wer in wi the drink for that an a that,
An gettin aboot lassies,
- Heather an shoartie tin,
That wiz the business,
Dealin wi that,
But no really the drink,
It might no be time yet,
To deal wi the drink.

Dundee,
Stain oan the petticoat o naichure,
Chainttye through the Drink and Chainttye by the Drink –
F’revrr trehin tae get back tae afore that time,
Back tae Spederman,
Back tae freedom
Where St Martin killt the dragon.

Fae the plesterboard boxes,
Ah the auld anes think,
Thit if thir is somethin else,
It’s goanna be mint,
The Mysterious Golden Cloud,
Ll sweep them awa,
Existin omnipotent,
Wi nay chains atta.

Never get tae wonder,
But it might be shite,
It might be keich,
It might no be sunshine,
It might be ren,
The next life might be a the misery and pehn,
A different consciousness o sufferin’
So drastic we cannae conceive it,
And nothin else -
Nae salvation,
Nae femily,
Naebody tae save ye,
Nae Dundee,
Wi ah its hooligans an Mods,
Punks an Heavy freaks,
An us,
Up the West Port wi aa that drink.
Christ, what a laugh.

Dundee, Dundee,
Naebdy kens yih like me.