Saturday, 29 June 2013

The Pictchur Above

See that wee man,                                          Do you see that small man,
On the bike,                                                       On the bike,
That's me.                                                          That's me.

An' later in life,                                               And later in life,     
I had a Volkswagon,                                      I had a Volkswagon,
Wi' a wing mirror.                                         With a wing-mirror.

This wee spedder,                                          This small spider,
Cah'd Freida,                                                    Called Freida,
Youst tae bide in the mirror,                    Used to live in the mirror,
Came oot in the sun.                                     Came out in the sun.

Me an' Freida,                                                 Freida and I,
Had a blast,                                                      Had a great time,
In that Polo,                                                     In that Polo,
Buzzin' aboot,                                                   Driving around,
An' buzzin' aboot.                                                And driving around.

Then came the cresh,                                  Then came the crash,
That lost pare Freida,                                 That lost poor Freida,
An' the mirror -                                             And the mirror -
Her hale hame,                                             Her whole home,
Went spinnin,                                               Went spinning,
Doon the brae,                                              Down the hill,
Pare wee thing,                                             Poor little thing,
Spinnin doon the brae.                                         Spinning down the hill.

Eh'll eyewiz remember ye,                                    I'll always remember you,
Wee Freida,                                                   Little Freida,
Ma wee spedder,                                         My small spider,
An' ma bike,                                                  And my bike,
An' ma Polo.                                                 And my Polo.

An' ah that graffiti,                                    And all that graffiti,
On the corrugated door,                         On the corrugated door,
That ever since,                                                 That ever since,
Eh've tred tae emmulate,                                     I've tried to emmulate,
Wi' nae luck,                                               Unsuccessfully,
In these faecal verses,                                      In these shitty verses,
Spinnin' doon the brae.                         Spinning down the hill.

Sunday, 16 June 2013

Habitual Cynicism

We kerry roond,
The greatest pehn,
The sherpest thoarns,
The heaviest stanes.
That pehn o’ desire,
For a repeat experience,
The pehn o’ longin’,
O’ missin’,
Whaur a second lasts eternity.

We ah miss somebody,
Yer Ma or yer Da,
Yer bairns,
Or yer brother or sister,
Yer freens,
Or yer doag.

A song or a view,
The company o’ a freenly face,
A feelin’ in the pit o’ yer gut,
A freedom fae yersel’.

We kerry roond,
The greatest pehn,
No rich,
No poor,
No stervin’,
No overfed.
The greatest pehn,
O’ crehin’ an crehin’,
Dear Christ,
Eh miss ye,
Dear Goad,
Eh miss ye.

An’ if ye only kent,
If ye only felt the same weh,
Right at that moment,
When Eh felt that weh,
Wid get rid o’ it,
Baith o’ us,
Deid or alev,
That terrible pehn,
That awful desire,

Wednesday, 12 June 2013

Crimson Psychosis

Eh knocked this ane oot,
Fir the smell,
O' the period,
O' crimson and lilac,
Which possess me,
To shiver ah ower,
For That,
Which winnae,
Come again,

As the flesh,

And the time,
Has cheenged,

It winnae come back,

Cannae come back,
But it has - deformed,
By its ane shadow,
Which is never enough,
Rapin' iz, grabbing iz,
Mauling, fondling,
Immersing, suffocating,
Thae deep crimson smells,
In thae deep crimson wells,

An' Eh suffocate,

In this bliss,
This crimson memory,
This lilac Hell,
For only bein' hauf.

Thursday, 6 June 2013

Existential Solipsism from the Scheme (inspired by Andrew Brennan)

How should Eh hae tae learn mair things,
When Eh ariddy ken enough,
How should Eh worry what tomorrows bring,
When thir might no be enough.

How should Eh fret ower whit you feel,
When thir’s naebody here but me,
How would you spend yer time theday,
If ye kent what it was tae be free.

Eh, but thir’s somebody else wha’s relle-in on you,
There’s mair tae the picture than that,
It’s responsibilities plague yer life,
No’ questions o’ that, an a' that.

How should Eh dae whit you waant me tae dae,
Wha gies somebody else they rights,
How should Eh live a life o’ no consequence,
When beauty’s eyewiz right in ma sights.

Oh but it’s consequence ye got when ye made a life,
An food on the table is needed.
Suppose there’s plenty o' berries in the park,
But  the tatties appear tae hae seeded.

Eh, but yer happy tae hae yer car and yer phone,
And yer thousand pound compute,
Ye stopped at the station and goat right aff,
And gied up yer right tae commute.

Well, wll bide in a tent an gie up this life,
We can bring up the wee ains wi pride. 
How should wi no’? Are ye ready to go?
Are ye so share will end up inside?

It’s no goin inside that Eh’m bothered aboot,
It’s the state o’ what’s inside o’ you,
Ah yer philosophy’s everbeen’s  jist excyase,
Fir bone-idle banter an spew.

How should we  hae tae pit up wi each other,
When wi baith ken wi baith can dae better,
Ye wir never a wife, only ever a mother,
Tae me jist a constant sare fetter.

How should you hae tae get aff yer arse?
How should you hae tae bring in the beef?
How do you ken that there’s anyone here?
Here’s how! Bang! Did ye feel that Chief?