30 June 2013

No Soul

She said she liked the cut of my cliché

Suburban dilettante with a splash of druggy mystique

“But”, she said, and here comes the wrecking ball, “You have no soul”

The girl with the raven’s eyes said I had no soul, but of course I have a soul – that’s where the pain lies. She laid the boot in where it hurts – right in the ego – started the downward cycle – spiralling beyond my control.

Any fool can draw blood with the carefully chosen word. Most use the scatter gun approach – just chuck them about till something sticks.

This was different – I felt she knew me – that she had seen inside of me and found me wanting. Embarrassed silence was the precursor to deep despair.

I have to report that I got very drunk!

I tried to drown my sorrows, but my sorrows float.

The flotsam of my life crowded my head with unhealthy vibrations.

My clockwork messaging service tells of rude change in the either region – either get it straight or go home to cry. I have no home, just a domicile – somewhere to lie down, when lying down is called for. Somewhere I keep my junk – in case I need my junk.

How banal – how very banal - the common place misery, the self indulgent woe. Why should I care what some stranger says – why do her words burn pathways of shame into my mind?

It was a lucky guess that’s all – she couldn’t possibly know that I had no soul.


26 June 2013

Number Seven


I set number seven ablaze. I’m surprised I didn’t think of it sooner. I was stoned at the time – when the impulse took me. I put the chip pan on and went out. It’s the most common cause of household fire, the chip pan. I was standing across the road watching when the fire brigade arrived. It was only then that the enormity of what I’d done hit me. I was shaking. I was in shock. I stood there among my neighbours and watched the smoke fuming from the roof. I could see the flames through the windows. All my possessions were burning. Everything I owned was being turned to cinders.

I was a bit embarrassed when the fireman guessed correctly that I was off my face, “the most common cause of household fires” he said. Fire cleanses, fire destroys and fire renews. Friends gathered around to console me, “At least no-one was hurt – are you insured?” At that moment I just did not give a shit. I would rise from the ashes. I was looking forward to it.

A few days later I was allowed to enter the building to retrieve any belongings that I could. To my surprise my bedroom – though covered in a thick layer of soot – was basically intact. I found a shoe box crammed full of old letters and postcards, a lifetime’s worth of correspondence. They were miraculously undamaged by the fire. I scanned through them – old lovers, friends, relatives – bitter sweet memories. They burned very nicely. One by one they joined with the ash on the floor.


24 June 2013

Feel Free

We ordered locusts, honeyed, from the promised land, but they were not on the menu. All we got was some tortured beast – already half dead – who threw us out into the street saying, “This is a respectable establishment – we serve tea!” 

We decided to have a drink, but it was Sunday cathedral quiet and all the pubs were closed. We noticed that everyone, everywhere, had been fucked in the face for no good reason. So we called the author to demand an explanation, we got no reply. He was probably on a book signing somewhere on Sinai. I demanded a lawyer – I know my rights – but the lawyers were all asleep, it being early on a Sunday morning. 

We gave each other medals instead, gold ones, as befitted our winner status. We were fast – faster than any car – any parked car that is. Slumped on a parked bench we pondered our next move while we had another smoke – it stunts the growth, but I was already ten feet tall and rising. I had a special lotion to prevent my errant growth cycle, but I had left it in the car and left the car somewhere where I could not find it. It’s always the last place you look – so we stopped looking, but it wasn’t there. 

Just then it hit us – where everybody was. They were in church – where we ought to be – as God fearing men. Sitting in God’s house with a thousand tabs of acid stuffed into my coat pockets I felt like every messianic hipster who’d taken the wrong turn on the road to salvation – ecstatic. When the minister said, “Let us pray” I gave my consent, “Feel free” I said, and we both fell out of our pew laughing.

23 June 2013

The Scheme


Packs of young hyenas

High on booze and speed

Echo in the distant dark

Split the night with blood oaths

Sworn to some terrible tribal god

A delicate sense of terror

Seeps through the concrete

The grapevine hums

With menace and disillusionment

On summer nights full of lusty promise

This city heaves orgasmic spasms

Cocks and cunts of infatuation

Fuse between sheets sticky

With cum and anal slime

False promises solemnly sworn

Fade before the creeping dawn

The accidental offspring

Of illicit couplings

Grow to repeat the cycle of suffering

Zombie see and zombie do

Here in the barrio of broken dreams


(A ‘scheme’ is a Scottish council estate or project)


22 June 2013

Idiot Junta


Kill the message

And shoot the messenger

Talk is treason

Shit for brains


The idiot junta

Strikes again

They mete out rough justice

Which is no justice at all


The great lie

Is being invoked

To stoke your pain

And guarantee your silence


21 June 2013

Charlie says…


Charlie hits home
With the cool rush
Floors the accelerator
With the deftest touch
My heart is a jackhammer
I’m coming up fast
And e x p a n d i n g out
Into the crystalline haze
Chain lightning strikes
And it feels so good
The spirit of ecstasy
Enfolds me from within
Blood blossoms in my brain
Manna for the membrane
Fuel for the ego
I feel like Steve McQueen
I got that showbiz smile
Welcome to God’s country
I found a gold mine
Hiding in my head
I’m dripping nuggets
All over the place
My poison is named
You know what kind
I need another hit
To feed my mind

19 June 2013



when it’s on me

it’s a speedball

an acid rush

the distilled rays of the sun

burn into my retinas

fuse the membrane

and flood my head

with a rainbow song

then I’m a supernova

I’m a lightning strike

an atomic bomb

I’m the Empire State

and the monster Kong

I’m a gushing torrent

a tidal wave

I’m a rattle snake

with a diamond back

I’m the seventh son

I’m a maniac


18 June 2013



the sun creeps in about 4 am

a gatecrasher to my tangled dreams

slips between my knotted sheets

pulls me under – draws me out

into the turning returning

bad news brewing – I can sense it

golden fingers augur an ill wind

some fresh disaster round the bend

poisoned vapours fill my mind

a gelatine heart pumps tepid blood

through atrophied muscles

trouble spawns a thousand children

each day a little death

at the ragged end of nowhere

the great lie claims another victim

I’m on my bended knees here

begging for redemption

rumour has it I’m a marked man

marked for a lingering death

a month of bloody sundays

a succession of dog days

gnawing at my bones

dissolution by degrees

the living death

reserved for zombies


13 June 2013

Dead Man’s Shoes


Buy me a drink and I’ll tell you a story. It’s set on the edge – on the road to hell. It’s all about a travelling man who slaved all day for a handful of nothing. That’s where it all goes – down the fucking tubes. Virtues turn to vices and vices come from shear fucking boredom. The luxury of indulgence turns to the slavery of convention. Emperors and paupers both wear tin crowns. It’s a hard road to travel for rich man and poor.

I walked these uncertain miles in a dead man’s shoes. They pinch, they chafe, and they leave little room for deviation from an idiot course. The path of least resistance leads to the bottom of the bottle. Dead soldiers litter the path to hell. I’ve been denounced in the seven tongues of god, decried by the voice in the wilderness. My burning bush had but one commandment; “Crawl”.

This cause is lost, the spirit ebbs away, but I’ll make my crooked way to where the grass is no greener and the people are no kinder. Always onward – never back – I’ll keep on until they find a reason to hang me in these shoes. I’ve seen men hanging, hanging by degrees, with the life choked out of them over the course of years, lynched by the mob, starved of the oxygen of love – ostracized and exiled to the lonely regions. Naked men left out in the rain, without a friend, without a home.

People look to the future, not me; I’m living in the past. Burning bridges can be rebuilt they say, and god knows how I tried, but not everything that goes around comes around. There are no second chances for men who already died. Hope may be the mother of all men, but I have no mother, no father, no-one else. I’ve nothing much to remember and nothing much to forget.

Some say that Jesus waits at the end of this road. That he’ll lift our burdens and wipe away our tears, but it’s the devil that is waiting for us down the road – waiting for dead men to wander by. So put coins on my eyes to pay my fare and wrap me in a pauper’s shroud. I need no stone to mark my passing – I never did before. We live in a dream and in a dream we die. Most of us are already walking in dead men’s shoes and if we only realised it – this dream would seem a nightmare.


8 June 2013

Magic Mushroom Messiah

magic mushrooms-07

He was one of those magic mushroom messiahs, the kind that shrivel in the sunlight. He told me that I was the net prophet of some psychedelic fishing expedition. He zapped me with the electric cool aid - all 50,000 volts. Man, he magnetised me, too much for my fragile mind, broken eggshell everywhere. The pieces crunched and crackled beneath my feet. Jagged little splinters bit my soles, but you gotta break a few eggs...

The host with the most, the most holy of ghosts - he cramped my style and rattled my can. I adopted unnatural dimensions. My in was out - my out was in. If I’d known there was a road I’d have stuck to it, but I was way off the beaten track. No master, no guru, no teacher - just a great push from the universal - a mainline to the source of everything. It’s like that elusive first high and the law of diminishing returns. There is no repetition in the pattern of things. There are snakes in this garden, but that’s the price of perfection. I speak in generalities, but the devil is in the detail.

“I bring you a message from your sponsor - you are tuning into the wrong channel” The seven tongues of god wrapped around my head. The chaos of the self gave birth to a new star. I wish I’d known the road was there - I’d have stuck to the road. If this was not the word of god, then god never spoke at all.

Them screw faces always drag me down. They are the fools and think foolish things. Back biters and scallywags play in the dirt, so they think dirt. I carry the fire, the fire within - to light the way for others who wander off the path. The magic mushroom messiah showed me how.