Maybe you are lying smashed and blocked like me,
staring at the sky… let’s think “What a hure of a universe!”
… your eyelids stretched alert beyond the need for sleep.
I wonder if you can feel the same shiver as I can right now –
someone fixed a guitar-string between your shoulders
and hit a long, lunar note. Very long, very fucking lunar.
Life is, well… come to foreign parts, drink the water.
Impurities? (see the sly, brown trout, the cunning bastards
that jab and dart like thieves fingers? They pish in the water.)
Fuck the impurities – they give the water its taste.
PS
There’s a yellowness to the sky that I cannae pin down.
It’s not the citrine of sunrise, more the slow-fade
of a month-old lo ammi chucked in a builder’s skip.
I’ve been walking for hours, like this, like you see me,
a towel I nicked from some hotel round my neck,
and the arse of my trousers still wet from sitting in The Meadows.
I came down from the castle fast, and my ankles are like hinges,
and my feet flap, and the pollis look at me like I’m some
old shitter who cannae hold his drink.
My breakfast has been the late drift of last night’s à la carte
from the froggy bistros in Thistle Street,
and that is beginning to hurt. Like the pain behind my eyes.
I can see a light; it might be red,
it might be more of the same yellow,
it might be MacDonalds,
I might have some money left.
Anyway, a gusty terrier of a wind is nipping at my ankles,
and I am yawing as I walk, hopscotching dog-shite.
Goodbye (he said, bowing), goodbye, goodfuckingbye.
Adding your comment:
