Ah take an early mornin’ stravaig

Ah take an early mornin’ stravaig
Oan a Scottish winter’s day
The air light and trembling
Wi a drizzle. The sky a grey
Cap on greyer streets, it says
‘Nae exit this way.’

Av got earphones in ma pocket
And a podcast on ma mind,
Ah thought ‘If hings get too miserable
Ah can always still unwind’
But noo, in uproarious mornin’,
Ah’ll admit am no si shair.

Indeed, if ah had blocked ma drums
From aw these mornin’ sounds
Ah would’ve missed the hungry gurgle
Of a dozen chokey drains, so too
Machinegun prattle of cars ‘long
Puddled roads. Neither would ah
Have heard thon Rice Krispie
snap-crackle-n-pop
Of rain fizzlin’ oot against the sheen
O’ ma best waterproof Mac’.

Continue reading “Ah take an early mornin’ stravaig”

Higher Planes

There is a room in Peru,
a big, lofty renovated barn
type room. And in this room
three strangers are lying
cosy under forty blankets.

On a top bunk by the window –
a window with a view of inter-
galactic constellationary kitchen
lights – lies el Capo; he is still wearing his took, he likes the way it keeps his hair in place all night, so it never looks too haywire come morning.

El Capo stifles chortles
and gurns as two comedians
flood his ears with witticisms.

Below the giggler lies Don Quixote; he lies on his back because he believes it’s the best way
to rejuvenate his muscles,
and he likes to prove to himself
he’s adult enough not to need the foetal position.

Don Quixote has his eyes
clasped shut, a fat and
loveable grin on his face. His toes dance to ABBA swede-pop.

Then, across the airy chill of bunk to bunk No Man’s Land, lies
Mathilda Wormwood, she has recently clipped her toenails
and she tests their smoothness
on her ankles.

Mathilda Wormwood hasn’t distracted herself with podcasts or music. Instead, she watches the rough plastered ceiling twist shapes above her, and concludes that she does indeed believe in different planes of reality. She has decided to strive for those
higher than her.

Poems // Las Poesias

Filterless

invisible valleys of my fingers
are martian red and dirty
black; choked with dust & oil.

the sunset washes them pretty
in the blue dusk, but
bent on grunge and defilement
i’m caught in golden rays
working dry tobacco
into their depths.

filterless, i push the rolly
between my lips and light
it with the last gasp of day –
burn my lungs as i pull,
trance-like in the presence
of volcanoes and giants. Continue reading “Poems // Las Poesias”

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