Archive | August, 2010


17 Aug

I am as indestructible as they come, same as the ink on my chest, on the bone, where the scottish flower swirls up against latin words in a script unknown. I am thistle in your side, up against your back when you sleep, and no amount of rain can wash away a pain this deep. And that is what they trade in, they trade in incomplete sentences and a history that cannot be written down, just spoken, sung, spun, by mad men with red beards and anguished knees that have bent over hot coals and icy dunes, with equal measure. I’m going to tell his story, their story, make it up as I go, call this place home.

The people I write for will not read this, they sit across from me, on couches, on pool tables, in fast black cars that bump over winding roads and roundabouts and they speak my language in a bent way that bears no resemblance to what they say is the Queen’s. They yell brash, through the night, they fuck and they fight, and I say, that’s my brother there and what is that blonde doing on his lap? When I curl up at night I want his arms around me and I want you to pound whiskey and pills and go home to your wains and forget what you saw here, just go back the same.

They deal in blood here, in soppy sad tales, in funeral pyres, and dismembered males, in fields of gory washed clean by the rain, and if you asked me why I’m here, I’d tell you the same. I like it that when I cry, the sky rips open and hurls wet wintery ashes on my face, that the leaves smack against my skin and the wind gusts full blown attacks against brittle bones and sends them hurling down the street. I like that when they write they get on stage and whisper sad little embryos of words, delicately picked for their most fruitful meaning, but what I do instead is whip them all together in a frenzy and let them lick their wounds, which drip on pages, on pavements, on gold star days, names signed on pages and pages of beer soaked days. Don’t be specific, leave out street names, make the reader think you’re anywhere, everywhere, timeless and engaged. Fuck you Leith and Great Junction Street and the way that you made me laugh at midnight and curse cold toes on awkward walks home, Leven Terrace where that girl got stabbed and I answered questions, and the meadows at 3 am, when Maria chased down the boy with the bike, a punch to the head and we all said, good night. It’s not daylight, it’s dusk, always dark and that’s why they write dismal failures and they say this city is not a character, not like london, new york, or l.a., but this is the place you can always go to that will crouch around you, wrap you up, leave you shit for shinola, batter you down, with dogs and junkies, and rich girls from athens, there to take a great big pride in what cannot be torn, cannot be rectified. indestructible, impenetrable, we are built on fire and pride.

real poets

17 Aug

Real poets

Leave spaces

Make stanzas

Keep words separate so that

When read aloud they can be


They do not let the syllables fall all over each other, running wild, desperate to be read, sliding as though covered in oil and mud and stumbling down the hill, whiskey bottle in hand, tumbling into a mish-mashed pile in tufts of green and brown grass, with dirt stained knees and bloody elbows and a sweaty forehead, speckled with sand. They let their words


They don’t make them feel breathless and broken, with each letter as unimportant as the next, but how they work together, in strings and rhythms, pulsing out the beat.

I’m not a real poet, I like to make the words build up, layers of paint, flaking away, not writing on the road, not living in the war zone, not making dusty references to alley ways and whispers and sad, wrinkled faces, caught on camera crying out, because when I see these things, words escape me, they get out of the ink, and so instead I find myself as jumbled as my words, racing at breakneck speed to jump in and out of these sheets, your sheets, water, waves, splash down, face down, on cobblestone, or marble tiles, or staircases leading to penthouses over  looking the glass Egg on starry nights, with coke fueled suits in liquid transactions in burlesque clubs on avenues that are hard to find, unless you have already seen what was going on, on couches on terraces under clear skies where it never rains, and then we have to start to begin again, with the new kind of Manson, he’s short and he’s bearded, but still making bread and the ladies will stab away at each other, metaphorically, until strawberry juice bleeds out of pink grapefruits and he offers her the bed, the bed the bed, which is mustaches and pitas and pink beer and wild dogs roaming the streets, but it’s raining in Costorphine, which you have to take the bus to, have to take the bus to, the twenty-two doesn’t go out this way, but it takes you straight up from the bedroom where all my paintings are, and how does he bring a girl back here, with my face everywhere, well, some of them are dumb enough to close their eyes when they come in the dark way, the back way, and I just kep on running, first star to your left and straight on til morning.


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