Monday, 17 October 2011

Poem 103.

Poem 103.

My fucking audacity,
Knows no bounds,
It can lift a fucker up,
It can shut a poem down.

It allows me to see the person,
Within the person.
My fucking audacity
Is gravy brown.

My sheer fucking audacity,
Makes me equal to you,
Nothing else,
Just my sheer fucking audacity.

It is a dart of pure honesty,
Which pierces through insecurity,
It starves paranoia,
And makes the impossible, possible.

My sheer fucking audacity,
Sounds like the swimming pool,
Tastes like curry,
And smells like petrol.

My working-class audacity,
Has lost people and things along the way,
It carries a stick or a golf club,
And is aware of the facts.

Oh, it feels good,
Until you come along,
And catch me in the moment
Before I can fight back.

Friday, 14 October 2011

Thirty Pages North

Pre-injection alcohol swab -
Swipe me from behind,
Hit me hard,
Punt me with a Martin to the palettes in the yard.
Use Jamie’s Magic Torch
For Tunnel of Delight,
Thirty pages North,
Toward the Slinky in the night.

Brasso –
Force my hand to the list,
My vow to return,
To eradicate the PVA
From the Crêpe Heart-Burn.
Occupy my list,
- As you occupy my past,
- As you occupy my present,
As you’ll occupy my Last.

Honeysuckle –
Roll my bobbin up,
Unpick all the issues,
Wrap them then discard them
In the sea of salty tissues.
Say, “What happened to us? What happened to me?”
Forgive and lay aside
My Action Man.
My Action Man can
Daisy Chain my pride.

Ocean –
Cry me distant roars,
Thawed from ice,
Let loose,
From Dens and Tannadice.
Surprise me with a Lucky Bag
As a mass of brute-red faces
Steam around the corner
From “yer no allowed there” places.

Thirty pages North,
Through a grimy crack in glass,
Still the ground it shakes,
And trembles as They pass.

Saturday, 1 October 2011



Autumn First Fervour.

Colours and altered states,
She remembers,
From Autumn mornings in the park,
Alone with scarf and gloves,
Passing puddles,
Bitten by the cold air,
The last tune she played looping round her head,
Mixing with the smell of coffee and Polo on her steamy breath.

Spring. Pissing out the fire.

Early morning dew,
Sparkling in the sunshine.
He took the tent down and called the dog.

Looking down,
The city lights go out before him,
Through the rosy spring haze,
Finishing their work for the night,
As he picks up his stick,
After pissing on the fire.

Back to having to talk to people,
Back to the effort of being polite,
Back to not hearing that noise,
Of sizzling delight,
Of pissing out the fire,
Or the river in the night.

Winter: From the Hospital to the Car Park.

Old Jim in the past,
Walks with a stick,
And a tap, tap, tap,
Hears God in the rhythm,
Which drowns out the crap.

Subtle words,
Soft timbre,
Explained and apologised,
For the agonising inevitable.

Hocca-tokka with his tongue,
As he taps taps out.

The erratic symphony,
Subliminally sinks with his heart,
While the straying beat sticks,
And familiar allows,
Pleasure pads forth,
And repitition
- overlays another time-signature.
- overlays another time-signature.

Outside exists Man,
With the drum of profanity,
In a Ford with a spoiler,
And a cloud of insanity.

Kendo in the present,
What the fuck was he doing anyway,
Rapping on the glass,
With his big fucking stick.

If I ever see you again,
You fucker,
I’m going to kill you,
Or say the fucking things,
I should have fucking said,
That will keep you up at night,
And proper fuck your head.

Summer Came and Went.

Summer came and went,
Largely without event.

Tuesday, 6 September 2011



Please let your brain,
Produce the same endorphins,
When you think of us,
Together alone,
When you think of us,
As teenagers,
The same high,
The same truth,
The same distactions,
Whether you liked me or not.

I was hopeless and almost useless then,
But I'm sure I don't imagine the intensity.
Eh'm soarry,
Eh'm share Eh hid bad braith.


Saturday, 30 July 2011

An End to All Confessionals.

"How do you know but ev’ry Bird that cuts the airy way,
Is an immense world of delight, clos’d by your senses five?" – Blake.

(Poem I - The Confessional Trilogy)

An End to All Confessionals.

My Da told me,
That the boys from the Gorbals,
Got kicked in,
In the Overgate,
In Dundee.

My Da told me,
That when he was starving,
It was freezing in the tenement,
He would have much preferred,
The sunshine of Africa.

My Da told me you Christian brothers,
You are no better than me,
Better than me.
Not to emulate,


And so I sent my note to God,

Explaining who I was and what I tried to do,
I scratched my name on brass,
And over heads it flew.

I told him that I’d read about,
The fag machine and the righteous lout,
It was me, me, who played that night,
In ’99.
The Angels Chapterhouse,
When it all went so right

And then wrong for the Mouse.

I told my Da,
Someone lost their life that night,
And I will never forget.
Someone better than me,
No better than me.

Only surfacing from time to time,

All This.

I told Da that I crave my Stupor,
The one he gave me,
And the screaming will not stop,
Until the Unknown flies.
The screams are in the background now,
Only surfacing from time to row.

But wait, Da,
Replaced reality,
Suddenly and Oh, dear God,
A phonecall, paralysis.
Horrible I,
No shoestring of horses,
Or prickling berries.
Denying action,
Of contact,
Of contract
Of smile,
Cut by the words,
Which sound so vile.

My Da told me,
Everyone started talking about God,
He felt alone,
He wished something inside would flick the switch,
Wished he was wearing his old brown hat,
And sitting in the ditch,
When the old lady wept and thanked Jesus.

Wishes he was one,
Not one of you.
Just one little lie,
No lies,
To tell you he's in,
Forgive all the sin,
Better people than him,
The People in the Sky.

He made himself a victim,
Of habitual cynicism.

Love those who make no apologies,
Relentlessly apologise, he,
Tried by surrounding himself with them,
Then realised the threescore ten,
And active,
People, Christian sister,
My Da told me you are all alone,
And have become psychotic,
Without a home.

(He could see it in the doctor's eye,
Intellect, but the need to defer the responsibility of freedom,
A reason, purpose?
A way to cope with the inability,

To comprehend infinity.)

I am sorry doctor, Christian brother,
But he wants it to be perfect,
Christian sister,
He cannot live without you,
And so,
Runs through a script,
And another,
And another,
All the white,
All of the right and drifting snow,
None of the false prophetic blow,
Succumbing to his deadly habits,
He cannot break,
Which cost him happiness and ache, ache.

My Da told me,

The sand and the sun,

The beach and the dip,

The green hill, alone in the rain,
The pub, dripping and laughing,
Drip, drip, drip, fresh air through the bar,
While taking off jackets and chattering rounds,
And laughing and smiling,
Smell of outside taking over the room,
Comfort inevitable nihilist doom,
Taking over the smell of outside in the room.

And me, running home through the leaves from school,
Along the Kingsway taunting cruel,
To Ambrosia Creamed Rice from the tin,
Alone, alone, and alone with sin.

Everyone started talking about their God,
He felt alone,
No better.

Your multitudes are in the background now,

Until I run home again,
From school along the Kingsway,

In the cold and early dark.

Wednesday, 20 July 2011

All Those Days in the Wild

All Those Days in the Wild.

Bent back lateral incisor,
Changed his path,
When that skinhead,
Wrought his furious wrath,
And stuck the swasticad head on me.
I remember the smell of the snooker hall
As my skull bounced back
From the sandstone wall.

First premolar,
Alone on the ground.
From the first floor my face said hello,
In an unscheduled meeting with the concrete below.

Foursies top: all upper central and lateral incisors,
Remember the fall,
The crack and the blood, the laugh and the thud.
Satan’s granite nurse,
Who requested the number,
Which didn’t exist.
Foursies top,
Saw me angry and punk,
Stoned and baked or spitting drunk.
Foursies broke, I lost my smile,
And it never came back
For a good long while.

Now weary, loved and manners mild,
I like to think back to those days in the wild.

Thursday, 24 March 2011



There was a stick wi shite a ower it,
That drifted tae a city ower time,
An academic saw it in a pit,
And took an interest in a the grime.
He took it tae the Profs wha gasped in awe,
And commenced tae study its rustic charm,
Critically analysed a they saw,
Discovered the shite had come fae a farm.
They foond oot the stick had come fae a tree,
Had been dipped in the shite by a wee boy,
They published papers on wha he could be,
Whether the stick be a weapon or toy.
A tred tae mak ane but a became sick,
As nane could match up tae the first shite-stick.

Tuesday, 22 March 2011

Happy Place Trespassing

Happy Place Trespassing.

I have a fondness for a place where nothing happens,
Only the elements make industry -
If industry should be sought.

I have a craving for a place,
Just far enough from madding crowd,
To build a fire defying chase,
No human power can move me now.

I have a longing to see my name in stone,
In the bark and shattered in the old quarry,
The places that will never change:
Within my life.

This burn, I remember, from hole in the ground.
The day, I remember, smell/sound.
Nothing mattered,
All burning stick
And insects watching wind
And damning streams, throwing thoughts
And hitting dreams, missing Bullseye,
Splitting seams and
SOARing in the clouds.

A place, the bliss of being there dictates,
I’ve done things wrong, made mistakes,
While I’m aware that I have the right to be,
And I will/do not transgress.

There are some places I probably shouldn’t go,
But don’t desire to care
As the first,
My parent, serenity, hound, which owns,
The place which is dangerous,
Now and then.

I have a fondness for a place,
Where strange bodies violate
The sanctity of my singularity
And scored across the quarry wall, “Rab Jones is a Dickhead.”