Stunted Shimmy

Aye so we’ve aw been there, huvvnt we?
Back tae th’back o the playgroond.
An ah’m tryin a wee shimmy oer the baw
n the baw gets kindae stuck in the mud n that,
n later when ahm eatin’ ma tea an Ma’s poring oer me like ahm goin aff ma sell by
date masel,
Ah gets tae thinkin’ aboot whit ma English teacher wis talking aboot the ither
day.
Talkin aboot mettyfurs.
Ah’n ah think, as ah chew slowly oan ma mince n tatties, that ah may jist hiv done
it!
Ah may jist huv goat it – cos surely the way the baw stuck in the mud like that
wis jist typical ken,
an that in itsel’ is a mettyfur for aw the things ah want tae go right at school -
bit tiny wee pieces o misfortune end up bawsing it aw up.

Hunners ae years later,
as ah sit doon tae ma tea (it isnae mince n tatties the night),
Ah think eh aw those years ago, wi’ the baw an the mud n the kick-aboots
every night withoot fail (there wis nothin else tae dae…).
An ah chew methodically oan my lasagne (which is pure lovely by the way)
an it happens again! A lightnin’ bolt moment!
The feckin’ mud stickin’ wisnae the mettyfur at aw…
Naw.
Ah think tae masel an reach for another beer wi’ a wee tear at ma eye –
the mettyfur wis the stunted shimmy.
The failed shimmy itsel’.
Of aw the things ah’ve ever wanted tae dae since.
Aw those wonderful things, fancy-free and fu' o grace
and jist like the mud that held the baw up,
there was a’ways some wee piece o misfortune that stopped me
bein’ aw that ah could be.
That bloody stunted shimmy.

PO

New York, New York

But I am your keeper…

To swim, yes swim, once more,

Indulge and immerse in passionate eyes.

To drink body-weight and think ‘what for’,

Stripped in this place, no space for lies.

Eternally holding mirrors up to yourself,

In a place devoid of calm, to find some peace!

This, home from home, soakwoundedanimalyelps;

Bathe in becalming liquor, dream of golden fleece.

A dream for dreams sake perhaps,

Or a fired imagination to never be quenched.

The subtlest of questionable connections lapsed,

And yet and yet and yet...

I am your keeper.

PO

Untitled

Oh aye, young laddie!
Ah’ve walked yer sinister shambles,
an’ marvelled at aw they meathooks,
carcasses swingin’ softly in a muckle breeze.
Yer gutters aflowing wi’ the awful offal an’ the red stuff.

An’ ah thought o’ you swingin’ fae wan o’ them too.

Dinnae try tae intimidate me, ya wee fud!
Jist cos we’re in the fleece,
you think ah’ll go aw shaky n’ that? Eh?
Think ah’ll turn oot tae be jist like wan o’ they toorists?
Wrang!

If you were alive t’day an’ spraffed tae me like that,
ah can tell ye right noo,
ah’d fuck you up.

PO

Sand

I sit and breathe watching shifting sands,
an old man embracing recollections.
Lost in Lethean oblivion – every time I call the sea back to me
it rolls back from the shore. every. damn. time.

Cover your neck
Hold you close
Tied you in knots
‘til I broke loose
- ruined myself again.

Shards of myself lying next to the foetal glass,
A maudlin’ maelstrom of minutes counted and lost.
I see the whisper of you reappear from the dune grass,
To reach out and lose you again to the marram.

Cover your neck
Hold you close
Tied you in knots
‘til I broke loose
- ruined myself again.

Riveting recollections, snippets of emotional pinnacles,
I was lost (and wanted to be) in your warmth.
An all encompassing embrace.
This was love that fell here, salted rivers on cheeks as the salted firth
fermented slowly near our feet; like last night’s beer.

I covered your neck
Held you close
Tied you in knots
‘til I broke loose
- ruined myself again.

I left my soul by the seaside



PO

Spring & Mulberry

Spring and Mulberry.
Mulberry and Spring.
Beneath the shark, black and white in hand,
I'm feeling the sting; I'm a jaded man.

And DeSalvio's bare branches look down upon me
to tell me excitement has subsided
to the loss of youth; but, much more importantly,
in the the tidalfire that is feeling like...
you are at home.

I drop in with the buzz and throng
of living urbanity - no banality;
but to try and capture the uncapturable,
to write an unwritable line -
to close. On the delicate promise of rhyme.

PO

Expectations

Expectations are funny things,
Give them licence, they'll run around you rings.
And all deliberating, preparation, swot -
Comes not to matter. Not one jot.

Yet, embracing chaos theory one might find
in the other extreme no balance of time
'til I am left relaxed muddled slightly in limbo
expectations lost; thoughts akimbo.

Neuralgia

Neuralgia sits very close to neurotoxin in the dictionary
A sure-fire slide to paranoia,
but ‘the intense pain along the course of a nerve’
leads to hiding my profile
and closing my ears to the aural toxicity that I love to dabble in.
I am not quite myself like this –
Simple shadows of normal operations.
Capacity pulse-shorn.

PO.