I feel blessed in the company you offer,
the simple acts of mercy, forgiveness
and to listen without judgement is
something I can only ever hope to emulate,
albeit in way that never steps on your toes,
for who am I
but a fool with clay feet
to hope that that I could match
your abiding, soaring
spirit that lights a beacon
far beyond the walls of Leith.
Calm assuredness,
a way with kind words
in which I feel that I am not being
It distresses me just how the two of you
want to destroy the other’s image,
when the real enemy of the times
is the gods that founded your existence
and breathed fire in to your tiny souls.
You explode with ferocity,
like a thousand Hiroshimas
captured in the dazzling light of
single black and white photograph
on the day that the Sun became insignificant.
Yet you have not the wit or the temperament
of grace in which to walk away
from the fallout and put distance
The Universe is dying,
the scream of the victim
and the whimpering quiet pleading
has been heard since it was born
against its will and left urgently
on the doorstep
of the nearest milkman
to deliver on his rounds.
Long since has it passed the anger and frustration
of youth and its quiet dogged resistance to Middle Age
in which it lost its maidenhead to Entropy
in a quick fumble beside the sea of forever
and the loss of the phone number hastily scribbled
For sale:
One fairly careful,
but sometimes under-valued owner
prone to breakdown on occasions
when the weather and temperament gets too hot,
has rust spots where lack of full thrust
and fifth gear has only ever been imagined
but never put in practice.
Right headlight needs work,
best not try on full beam as photophobia
may upset other users.
Stereo works well, too well, sometimes
only available on loud, especially when
the mood hits and the upbeat open road
seems clear of clutter, place objects in way,
The deal was struck one lazy January day
in the Winnie-Gate over an illegal pint
for all present . The pile of over salted chips costing
each less than a good night’s sleep
and the sound of pool balls smacking in time
off the green velvet stained with half chewed
cigarette smoke and twenty-pence bets
to the tunes of the day being played
with carefree abandon
from the cannibalised juke box,
cannibalised through our own choices
and 80s regalia and the only acknowledgment
to our deeds was the fashion for the rolled up
We haven’t spoken for a while,
the telephone more like an instrument
of sarcasm in your hands and the last time
I heard from you was for the voice of introspection
to try and take control of a person’s thoughts
and life that wasn’t yours to observe upon;
for the running commentary via the modern way
of stripping flesh from bone but with the crocodile
concern and false eye tear that suited your demeanour
as you laid into me, despite me having been
your only friend for a while and one who never
Can I exist without you?
For you, blasted devil, the persistent whining nag at my ear
and the dagger that sways slightly in the breeze
as it hovers without remorse or feeling
at the knotted black foul smelling lumps in my spine,
can I truly be who I am now without your whispered
torture, the sledge hammer attacks and small drill bit
sensation causing ripples up and down what is
no longer there, if you too also disappear without trace?
An old friend I hadn’t seen
You might yet win the day…
I learned long ago to never deeply
trust the advances made
by the English men
in white and the often cried for
perfect conditions in which to slay
the oldest foe,
yet somehow it has to be said
it’s looking very unlikely
that the front foot is about to come
off the Baggy Green Coat of Arms
wearing Kangeroo and the misinformed
Captain Emu, certainly not
in any way that suggest a quality
of Mercy, not today…
I am not surprised that many of us
survived the way that Shakeamaker
dealt with us,
I am astonished
that we did so without looking the maniac
in the eye and resisting all temptation
to punch him in the stomach
with our tiny eight year old hands
and screaming with our lungs
fit to burst, our lungs still blaring
as if mimicking the sirens
that disclosed the approach of the bombs
that rained down and the aftermath
in which we played in as children;
The day I found that ship wrecked
pound note, the eye of the Queen
giving me a warning glance or the drifting
smile of a woman I will never meet,
like the furtive teasing of a model
stripped down to the waist that adorned
the tossed away magazines and that got caught
in the branches of the Willow trees
that lined sentry still on display
on the banks of the River Rae,
on the dusty pavement
on the bridge
that separates Moor Green Lane
and Dad’s Lane…