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.

Habitual Cynicism

We,

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,

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,

Pehnful,

Longin’,

Awful,

Empty,

Crimson Psychosis

Eh knocked this ane oot,
Fir the smell,
O' the period,
O' crimson and lilac,
Which possess me,
To shiver ah ower,
Shiver,
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,
Askew,
Incongruous,
Representit,
By its ane shadow,
Which is never enough,
Rapin' iz, grabbing iz,
Mauling, fondling,
Immersing, suffocating,
Lovin-in,
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.

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?

Meh Work.

Meh work, Eh keep, for the hillside fire,

For the hillside fire,

Hillside fire,

MEh work, it flames oan the hillside fire,

Alang wi' Louis MacNeice.

Meh work, Eh abandon upon this mire,

Meh putrid choir,

 O' spent desire,

Meh work, it flames for naeone tae see,

'Cept me, 'Cept me,

'Cept 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.

-

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”

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.

-

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.

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.

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 yeh 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,
Leather an Lace,
Laither jaicket an Mertins,
Fortifehd wine, Merrydoon,
Green moansters, gut-fuckers,
Snakey-an-black-an
Nucleur brown…
Oan an oan wi the 80-shillin' fun…


Dundee,
Stain oan the petticoat o naichure,
Chainttye through the Drink and
Chainttye by the music,
Freed fae ye by the friendship,
Embarrassed by the birth –
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.

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.

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.

Seasons.

SEASONS.

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.