The stream (all workshops)
Some people around us
Seem not to see at all
Beyond the limit of the nose
The effects of their misdoing
Or just being apathetic
To filth and fizz
When rain falls
They rush in to bring
Their garbage bins
Empty the contents
Into running rain water
In the gutter before the house
Polythene bags
Wasted food, empty cans
Broken bottles
Shit and vomit
Swept away
To where there is obstruction
I am a freak
don't wear caps, nor hats,
nor jewelry
nor logos on my clothes
no bumper stickers
no tattoos
don't chew gum
don't like comic books
nor hollywood blockbusters
nor crowded bars, guns,
mindless profanity, macho posturing,
loud talkers,
nor any kind of pagentry
I don't drink
don't gamble
nor play video games, boardgames,
nor BINGO!
I have no appreciation for Disneyland
nor Vegas,
nor stock car races
Antiquity
time unrelenting
personal passage
minutes movements
marked
Calendars...
pretty pictures
numbers of precision
pristine white pages
visual reminders...
Clocks...
ticking away measured lifetimes
bated, dated, bar-coded
scissors move to cut the threads...
he is a poet
and I, destitute in his mercy
make small unintelligible sounds
his tongue curls around
my syllables of breast and thigh
I leap into occasion
devoured of flesh,
he hides me from myself
and dissects my sentience with mathematical precision
there is a dark angel sleeping in my bed, his poetry
oppresses me, he taunts me with his touch
and his pen pinions me
he whispers: "fly with me"
I walked the beaches' shore
Salty seas still lingers in my nose
With parted lips
The taste of salt settled
On my tonsils
I fancy the summer breeze
Welcome the humid air
That rose from the water's surface
My skin grubby with sand
Ever moist
The touch of his hand in mine
Welcoming stares in his eyes
Made the heat unnoticeable
Taste of wine on his breath
Warmth of sweetness on my face tickled
Like dandelions blown in the wind
Love and nature shares with the ocean
The poem is about a famous collector of antiquities who left his collection to the people of Glasgow. This is housed in a custom - made building in the woods in Pollock Park. There the River Cart flows and my imagination was fired. Enjoy !
THE BURRELL COLLECTION
William Burrell's Merchant Fleet
Brought wealth to buy antiques and art.
He gifted all to Glasgow City,
To be kept in Pollock Park.
the white blur
like an albino dream
black satin filled with crystal wishs
star fallen in the faded well
I soared in the wind
Rose above the trees
I could have gone farther
Into space far up
To the stars and the sun
But the cord won’t let me go
It was only a wish
I am bound to it
With a little boy at the end
The boy understood my desires
Helpless though
He let go the string
But that which I thought
Tied me down
Was in truth
Holding me up
words pop into my head:
"Cambodia",
why on earth would I take
a ship through the pillars of Hercules?
I'm not an oarsman or an oracle
nor am I in favour of mutiny
words don't hop off the page with
regrets, pink-eyed and ready to fuck
at the drop of a hat
you just give a poem your best shot, write the
words down before life skins you alive
and you are carried away, still mouthing words that
would have been poems.
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