Uncomfortable Crown

Stand 6ft back and deliver.
Stand 6ft back motherfucker.
Keep your distance, kill the virus.
We're united as divided.
Stay 6ft back motherfucker!

Hands on flesh and dripping lips
Are distant memories.
Finger tips
are gloved; and inside
red and raw
from soap and scrubbing.
Dry and sore.
Visors fogged with rancid breath.
Dehydration's safest bet.
Under aprons nervous sweat
trickles, tickles.
Don't stop yet.
If not service then you're worthless
and essential's redefined.
It's the year of perfect vision.
See the world through unslept eyes.
Safety now is in division.
Mass graves dug attest this fact.
The way it was was never normal.
That bridge is ash.
There's no way back.

Present

We are here and now
but how
to get out of this mess
is the question.

Grotesquely gratefully undertaken guilt
in the lands that colonialism built.
Damocles democracy up to the hilt.
Kamikazi kakistocracy cashing in on milk long spilt.
Curdled cultures spreading spores.
Survival instinct the strongest force
on decreasingly distant shores
while we try to define "reliable source".
Fake news and State news and Corporate news, too;
they're all propaganda
an underhand way to push one agenda
it's demonstrably true.
We've gone from mock outrage, to sincere apathy, to militant bickering.
It's a revolting rhapsody
of society's disunification and collapse.

Here we are, and now.
Ploughing on,
disregarding rippling rumbles
as grumbling gods.

Tornadoes, volcanoes; hurricaine brutality;
gargantuan gyres and shifts of polarity.
Terra Firma trembles to Terra Fragility.
Rewarding ruination dressed as destructive capability.
Vulgar vultures, wagers of war
licking their lips while weapons stocks soar
and waste water rattles shake plates to the core
and toothless judiciary makes jokes of the law.
Free speech and Hate speech and Corporate speech too;
they're sophisticated-
in the Platonic sense-
manipulated.
None of it's true.
We've gone from communication, to control,
to Twitterati creedence gifts.
It's left a giant hole
where debate should be.
We've let civilisation lapse.

Are we here? And now?
Surround yourself with light
and fight
the frequencies of dischord.
Use courtesy. Firstly remember compassion
before embarking on any rash action.
Remember that romance is not being rationed
and amplifiers elevate the maxim of attraction.
Guttural grunts of headline hacks.
Persistant pop ups of click bait claptrap.
Love's language languishes solely through lack
of being spoken. Take speech back.
Home life and Work life and Corporate life, too.
They're all characters-
in facets of sense-
they're all you.
We went from idealist, to masochist,
to embracing practicality
and in the midst lost liberty.
We built our own traps.
Here
and Now
are we.

Lyrical Living

So I’ve been to all these gigs

and listened to the bands

and heard how nobody understands

the loss they feel,

the heartbreak, the pain.

It’s the same old story Sam,

sing it again.

I’ve heard all the fills, like

“Oh, baby, yeah”

Did you run out of words to fill that space there?

Am I getting old?

Or just getting pickier?

Or perhaps, with experience, cynical and bitterer?

It’s just that all this monotonous crap

as about as profound as clickbait video soundtrack.

Calculatedly sentimental,

as irrelevant as Blockbuster video rental

to the age we are living in and the way I experience

emotional ambush and unspoken inference.

Blandy McBlanderson.

Selected generic

when we lives in such interesting times.

LED screens on with lightshows mesmeric

to distract from the mundane straight rhyme.

That’s not to say I don’t love it.

Dancing is pure bliss.

Eyes-closed-bass-pounding-through-my-chest-my-arms-a-twist.

Exchange of energies intense,

connection of rhythm and chord and cadence.

Dance for sorrow.

Dance for rage.

Dance for anxiety.

Dance for tomorrow

belongs to those that can see it coming.

Dance because knowing what’s going to happen isn’t always a blessing.

Dance when you feel powerless. In

some small way you’ll feel better.

And whether you know it or not

the shot of joy I feel,

knees buckling after a night on the tiles

is the same depth of smile

I get

from poetry.

And so, although I seem

ungrateful

I’m really not.

I’ve had a summer of music never to be forgot.

And from my depths, thank you

for you’ve all heartily moved me.

It’s just that if I’m honest

I’d rather be at poetry.

                                                                                                                    

This was one of my entries for the Manx Lit Fest Poetry Slam this year. One young man mistook my friend for me. He asked her at the interval what her problem with modern music was. To him, I say two things: 1) Wrong tall dark-haired girl. and 2) You've totally missed the point of the poem. 

Much love. X

Romero

Romero was a romantic.

Voluntary Zombification

wasn’t included in his epic.

Nor was informational monetisation .

We are the mumbling, stumbling masses.

We’re the brain dead, GM fed, disposable classes.

Deafened by the rumbling malice used to reassure us.

It’s the somnambulists’ sonorous psalm-like chorus:

It’s their fault – COMPLY

It’s their fault – OBEY

It’s their fault – ACCEPT

Above us holographic promises projected

onto roiling clouds of discontent

seem concrete.

Below, the mire sucks to ankles, feet

rotting in perpetual effluent, deep

and cloying as corruption is cheap.

Malaise molests our mucous membranes,

remaining even after exhaling this weighty air.

With fuzzy focus, our brows furrowed

we attempt to see clearly in ever-long shadows:

the projections.

Mirages of meaning

heinously inspiring  false hope

through eye burning vapours  

and looking glass lies.

Fingers outstretched we strive

to grasp

then gasp

surprised

when hands pass

through

banisters on stairs

that were never really there

at all.

We fall

for this repeatedly,

our gullibility

rivaled only by the virility

of our envy.

Gaudy baubles.

Tawdry tell-alls.

Scandals based on media morals.

Distract, deny

debase, decry,

berate, then buy

into this

mis-in-

formation.

Visions of similar vexatious veracity

we are force-fed emphatically

until this aspirational claptrap

is snapped up

by strapped up

facsimiles of fashionable pretence.

(In their defence,

all face paint is war paint

and all clothing is fancy dress.)

And yes, I too

am subsumed

by this murky world.

Cursing at cloud forms

coughing at coarse fumes

finding comfort in costume.

Is this

security?

The Mafia style Protectorate

we live under with Protocol Three?

The perverted version of protection

offered by the Panopticon

promotes

extreme proposals

perfect

for pitting us

one on one

and on and on

we go ‘til we turn on

ourselves.

Belly-flames long gone cold,

we’re dejected, cut price, wholly sold.

Raised on debt and dreams of gold,

forget ever owning anything.

Political correctness causes steroid- thin skins

to equal the pages of the books we binned

and burnt

never having learnt

to critically think

our way out

of the mess we’re in.

Overused superlative responses

out-stretch soaked and underrated nuances

to polarization purpose.

Once we are accustomed to unreason at this rate

 we lose our slippy grip on the power of debate.

Reduced to frothing opinions,

forthright remonstrations

forceful demonstrations

and farcical deliberations

over arbitrary -isms and -ists.

“No I’m sorry, you must choose from this list

of things we have determined are suitable for you.”

When the decision is between

 being thrown to the hounds,

or buried under the ground,

still breathing

it’s no wonder folk are

keeping their heads down,

silencing dissenting sounds,

numbing their sense of feeling.

With enough bodies under the mire

the heap might just be high enough

to lift us up beyond this stuff.

That’s the logic, right?

Except that fetid foundations

build putrid palaces

and subsidence is simply

impossible to fight.

Sooner or later we are all sucked under,

fucked over

by a state that places emphasis

on cronyism and nepotists.

What makes you think you can win?

It’s not a case of sink or swim.

We need to invert the way we think

to even have a chance.

They aren’t world leaders,

they are world servants

And the sooner we remind them

the sooner we end this macabre dance.

20/03/2010 Dear Gio (but not for Gio)

Surrounded by vices as strange as sliced toast
Interacting with many half-living, half-ghost.
Some glowing brightly, some dulled by life's blade,
but everyone wants something from you, I'm afraid.
Some want your body, some want your mind
Some of them only want you to be kind.
The best are the ones who want you to be you
and the ones who just want you to smile.
The ones who will paint you with custard and glue
To away a fun little while.
Who'll help you survive, help you to say no,
teach you things about Glasgow you never would know.
Ride bikes with you, share with you, get you a job.
To share a good joke with, to share with a sob.
To drive one way round Nottingham, eight or nine times (!)
and hypnotise randoms with powers of rhyme.
A gallery cafe, a man in a dress
and all of the time at Paisley Road West.
The long walk home never seemed so long
when walking at five forty-five
And shiny posh bars never seemed so wrong.
You'd rather be seen in a dive.
And if you find these friends my boy, hold them tight.
They're rarer then wormholes, more precious than light
and all of the time that together you'd have
would be sacred, remembered, occasionally mad
but thoroughly lived - and that's the whole point.
In life's murky waters, I urge you: anoint!
Your life may transport you to a Dear Green Place
of culture, catastrophe, darkness and grace
and then, maybe then, you will make friends like these,
my long lost and ever-beloved Weegies.

14/10/13

I feel I am just waking up
from 10 years in Van Winkle dust.
Head is clearing, footsteps lighter.
Horizons wide and vision brighter.
Emotional ballast I've unburdened.
Old grievances I feel I've pardoned.
Not that I'll forget, of course,
But from that me I'm now divorced.

Is this me now growing up?
Or just a midlife crisis?
It's not too young, my half-full cup,
I'll probably die of bronchitis!
Those days we can't choose but to see,
when antibiotics don't work
because no company wants to fund
research with no glamorous perk.

I know what I want and how to get it.
All I need now is time.
And a canyon of work, of which I'm not afeared.
My life will be Reason from Rhyme.

The Mermaid and The Sloth

Come and meet some friends of mine,
we'll go to where they stay
with toasting glasses held aloft
and witty repartee.
I'm sure we'll have a lovely time -
they're very welcoming.
They are the Mermaid and the Sloth
to them ourselves we'll bring.
Please don't mind their way with words.
Their oft-referenced archaic verse
is harmless at the very worst.
With intelligence they're cursed.
The Mermaid and the Sloth.

Mary Poppins

Dispensary Blues

I am sick of helping the sick
And getting nothing in return.
No sick pay, no thanks.
Just above minimum wage I earn.
I am sick of hearing how things will improve
As another friend's hours get cut or removed.
I am sick of the blame and the lawsuits I risk
Because of mis-prescribed medicines that do not exist.
The lack of support and unbearable pressure
When every day things just get worse and not better.
Vocations unvalued and talents deterred
instead of encouraged. Profits preferred.
Insomnia's nightmares curse all those that care.
Long term dispensers in this firm are rare.

Speaker Celebrity

Three years of ridding myself of my rage
left me bellaputrescent and old for my age.
I appear to you now as a mere wizened spectre;
A wrinkled and cynical regret collector.
My most squalid and heartbroken version of self.
Insurmountable walls built on negative wealth.
Don't judge me on all of my confident bluster.
The truth is so human, severely lacklustre.
The best metaphor is that I am a pearl;
A wist-wasteful woman in guise of a girl.
Layers of glamour, a heart made of sh**;
My place in this world an uncomfortable fit.
Now hollow of eye, of cheek and of heart
I fantasise daily of ways to depart
and romanticise leaving no remnant behind;
Of wiping all memories of me from all minds.
Don't get me wrong, it's not my own demise
that's driving me now - I'm no suicide.
I want retrospectively not to exist.
I would never have chosen a life such as this,
knowing now what I know. If I knew then
that my life would be guided by follies of men
so selfish and cold they can't even admit
when they've lied. Would I want it? Not in a fit!
They tell me that if I pretend long enough
-at happiness, love and all of that stuff-
that one day I'll wake up and I'll feel content
walking this finite and f***** firmament.
They tell me that life isn't really so bad,
that I am environmentally sad,
that all will improve, given hope, given time.
"It's just circumstantial. Try going outside."
So I straighten my face and strengthen my defense
And once more construct my perfected pretence -
That I'm choosing to live, I've the world on a plate.
That I'm not just a selfish and boring ingrate.
And who knows what will be in the days still to come?
Not me, if I freak, chicken out and just run.
Now I bid you good day, tip my hat, flash a smile
and invite you to wander this path for a while
and keep walking until we emerge in the sun.
For my life in the shadows is near enough done.

Surely?

A Good Talking To

Heed the prophet as she comes;
bitten nails, mascara runs.
What once entranced now nauseates.
Love once inspired, now apathates.
No balls for you, young Cinder-Zappa.
Weak and cowardly. Empty wrapper.
Betrayer of your youthly self,
Now 9 to 5 and on the shelf.
Uncreative, antisocial.
So far removed it's downright woeful.
The slip so far to what you are
can only treasured memories marr.
Reclaim yourself, take back the night.
Keep your goals within your sight.
Self-sabotage and confidence lack
have stolen years you'll never get back.
Forget the times you could have made it,
before your chance and youth have faded.
Focus now on what will be
as working truly sets you free.

Baby Weight

If love is love as love should be,

then why does it enslave, not free?

Love is a power - nay, a force

that rivals all but gravity

and as said best by Spiderman:

"Power is responsibility".

You, the product of our love;

that spiralling arcing meteor.

Those fireworks, rockets, sleepless nights

that bred into a lifetime more.

And slavery was none more false

for waged I am by your sweet smile;

to relive that first one again

I'd crawl on cliche a million miles.

The perfume of your morning hair

outweighs the months of colicked hell.

To watch you grow and learn and love

I'd give again my childless self.

The birth of you one snowy day

shackled me with steely bonds.

But witnessing your joyful play

is all the freedom I could want.

The Mystery of the Moon

One crystal-aired and clear-skied day
I wandered pondering away,
To discover if the tales were true;
Is lunar rock just cheese of blue?
I asked the solemn cows so wise, but all they said was "Moo".

I had heard told the deep blue sea

Could answer any mystery,

So went and stood on windswept shore;

Begged and pleaded, screamed and swore.

The waves to calm me murmured "Shhhh", but gave no answer more.

I went to university,
The learn-ed folk and library,
But they were in a picket line
With angry looks and waving signs.
It seemed they had their own questions and wouldn't answer mine.

I scaled the Himalayas,

(The grass, the rocks and icy layers)

To see if I could see from there

If it were stilton or gruyere.

Altitude sickness got me first- I need much thicker air.

Atlas mountains on camel road,
With Bedouin tribes and desert code.
I saw the moon more clearly then
Than I ever will again.
I saw how silly I had been and found a peace-like zen.

It was obvious to me

The moon's not rock or cheese of green!

It's each unanswered mystery;

The "what' if"s, "what now"s and "what's to bes";

The gotten undreamed and the great-never-had:

That's why She glows and why She's sad.

Mindless Burblings

It's too late to leave

We're all here now

Why don't we make the best of it?

We could stay and chill, maybe take some pills.

Mutilation? I don't like the scent of it.

You saw me fall, you aren't so tall

and now we've facts to face again.

"Crush your head 'til you feel dead"

That's the motto of this nation.

Love of hate, let's make a date

for the ultimate destruction

It's over now,

well anyhow,

it's not gonna go much further

There is a word for what we sell,

I think you say it "murder"

Why do we live when we should die?

It's not the natural order

You say you hate us all - You lie!

Remember Eve? You adored her!

You laugh and smile and paint and tile,

It's an expected rejected cover

I know you've been betrayed before,

The wounds must still be bleeding

Your body's cold,

it's much too old

to deal with this feeling

Flowers and hearts and poison darts

aren't enough for space exploration

Churches and pubs and new born bubs

will be the downfall of civilisation

Italics and sporadic reasoning skills

are pointless until resurrection

Bimbos and life skills and alcohol and many pills

will be the cure for this temptation

Theology and belief are no relief for this terrible

self-deprecation

Basilesque Basilisk

Oh basilesque basilisk, you've captured me again!
No golden fleece of gain to reach, just smoky sublimation.
Fossilised and randomised, enraptured and endangered.
With bloodshot eyes and twitching sighs

And an often.. rather... strange...
 head.

Love: All

To err is human, to forgive divine

What course of action will be thine?

Heroic vengeance, stoic acceptance.

How sincere if any repentance?

A tree does not know it is wretched

But wretched is all that I am.

For I know I know nothing and inside that nothing

is the knowledge that all that he was was a sham.

And the fear of losing my unknowing had

Who was there when I called on my way to being mad.

The only one I called when it all went to shit

Who knew of my tears and my chemical habit.

The others passed 7 long years in the dark

As I wandered wasted our common-themed park.

Now this new attraction, so shiny and slick!

But is it honey or venom that drips from each click?

"I've seen love from both sides now" and other songs like such

And honestly for me the emotion gets too much.

I always retreat to the space in my head which opens to stardust and perceptional shift.

Not induced by drugs or anything more than a headache as felt by young Alice.

but I'm losing the point now; my reason is this:

I'm teetering on a lfe precipice

And it's not up to me on which way I will slide.

All engines are dead now, I nothing but glide.

How heady this high blood pressure!

How heavy the weight of the world!

In this humidity, no wonder my hair is starting to curl.

And I can do nothing but pass back and forth

Like a tennis ball, final, Wimbeldon court

And it's Love: All

No Apologies

My heart belongs to another,
My body another still.
Some things I cannot explain to you dear
And other things I never will.
My life is my life and
Your wants are your wants:
The pair will rarely agree.
So please stop trying to take me to bed,
Pure sex is just not for me.
I require a further connection of minds,
Of rhythms, of values, of life.
I’m not just another ridiculous girl,
I’m the woman all men want as wife.
How dare you think me so accessible?
I’m shrouded in love and surrounded by walls
And all your attempts with be no good at all.
I’ll gift you with nothing but memory’s recall
Of a want unfulfilled
And a woman strong willed
And beautiful, gifted and tall.

Constant Companion

Let me with thoughts just silent be
And smoke this rollie; 43.
I have no urgent place to go,
I’m not alone. I have my Woe.
She dances oh-so-prettily
With outstretched arms on bended knee
But pauses often just to sigh
And if you ask she won’t say why.
She’ll just smile enigmatically
And offer you a cup of tea
In tones so sweet. She’s never sour.
Not once has she been known to glower.
To some she seem so pure and free,
But this is bonded liberty
And you can wager futures on’t;
There is a price for freedom’s font.
In her eyes you’ll seldom see
Unadulterated glee.
There’s always partial secrets too.
They must be kept from folk like you.
For Woe and I, we are a we,
That’s she and I, not you and me
And she’s observed all that I’ve squandered,
Lives I’ve bruised and lessons pondered.
I’m accustomed to her company
And other don’t see her, just me.
With blackened, widened, blinded eyes,
They’ll never see behind the lines
So let me with thoughts silent be.
I’m not alone, for Woe’s with me.

Open Skies

I’ve tried to explain this rootless of times
but all come befuddled like passions of crimes
and all I convey seems like paranoia
when all it is really is negative joy. A
simple expression of gutfelt pure feeling
seems hollow and somehow devoid of true meaning.
You see with this gift of your love and your trust
you left my iron-clad heart out to rust.
Invincible I marauded through days
giving no thought to next week, tomorrow a haze.
Entirely reckless and feckless – just living.
What happened just happened. What didn’t, just didn’t.
I hate you for all that you force me to feel.
I have to make plans now, be cautious and deal
with mundanous housework and bills and the fear
that one day I’ll wake up and you won’t be here.
I’m so terrified of the day that will come
when the imperfect duo of us will be one
broken automaton, loverless lover,
with no one to run to, to hide and take cover.
No sanctuary, haven or reason to be
the people we both urge the other to be.
Soul-image, my animus, all I adore:
you make me feel vulnerable, need I say more?
I hate that I love you. Our crazy dynamic
leaves me open to loneliness, heartbreak and panic
and yet I can’t help it. For all of my fear
I want what scares me. Does this statement seem mere
-ly a flimsical knock-off, a gesture at most,
a wine-driven-10-to-12-red-faced-man’s boast?
It’s not, I assure you. It’s all I can give.
You are my reason to wake up. To live.
And all that I have and all that I do
it’s all just a heart-unbroke tribute to you.
Your patience, your actions, your strength and just you
make me fear for the future. Question: just who
would open themselves to a lifetime of this
uncomfortable happiness, blinkerless bliss?
The me you created with that first kiss:
This misgiving Mrs from misanthrope Miss.

Blessing Buried in a Glasgow Flat

In home improvements old and new,
Think of us, we’ll think of you.
We people who were here before,
We built that wall, we laid this floor.
Such happiness beneath this roof!
This board is here if you need proof.
We wish you joy and all the best,
To never suffer loneliness.
A home’s for love and sanctuary
Against life’s varied tragedies.
It’s just a ride, it’s just a game.
Everchanging,  still – the same.
Fight for justice, liberty
And to retain your dignity.
Don’t undervalue anything
That makes your soul and spirit sing.
Learn great lessons, keep your dreams
And always live within your means.
Let yourself feel joy and hurt
Completely and with no reserves.
Believe in others and yourself,
Protect your family, friends and health.
I’m sorry to be lecturing,
But ancient wisdom I must bring.
We gift you with a sickly earth:
Ravaged, stifled, bruised and burnt
But implore you to do good,
To live as we all know we should.
To you we’re ghosts, but now we breathe
And what we can’t, you must achieve!