A near kiss
sparkles like wide-awake.
Peels soft skin off star-glittered lips
swept up in keen, tipsy sunshine.
Sunday 26 December 2010
Friday 24 December 2010
Funeral on the 23rd of December.
Funeral on the 23rd of December.
The hard ground
and the soft snow
cracked and caressed the shuffling feet
Whilst this winter chilled us all above and below.
A few heavy laden folk turn up too slowly
With the noise of xmas disrespectfully ringing in their ears.
What a day for dust.
And ash.
And snow.
A day negated by eve,
lived only through some hurried stuff and nae work.
The bells and the holly aren’t even for him,
But for a cross Pinnochio, who,
on occasion,
condescends to this place.
With this man,
I lie white cold,
Like a thoughtless gift in a decorative box.
The hard ground
and the soft snow
cracked and caressed the shuffling feet
Whilst this winter chilled us all above and below.
A few heavy laden folk turn up too slowly
With the noise of xmas disrespectfully ringing in their ears.
What a day for dust.
And ash.
And snow.
A day negated by eve,
lived only through some hurried stuff and nae work.
The bells and the holly aren’t even for him,
But for a cross Pinnochio, who,
on occasion,
condescends to this place.
With this man,
I lie white cold,
Like a thoughtless gift in a decorative box.
Monday 22 November 2010
Human Traffic
Human Traffic
From this grey, rubber plinth and a medicinal blow
Cracked a thought (less) division: an old love lying low.
Insidious past-life scares dreams from the south
And plots this red course where weak men stop to go.
Love! – or waxy, yellow shame tightens the guts
Whilst malevolent water creeps up past my nuts.
This guilt in my mind and your honeycomb brain
Reveal to me nothing save reason to cut.
Soft cuts in a mid-corpse not too ready to die
Though fake blood streams past a gelatinous eye.
I’m not dead though still ripe for the worms and green birds
Who mock my illusion. Who needs words? Not I.
From this grey, rubber plinth and a medicinal blow
Cracked a thought (less) division: an old love lying low.
Insidious past-life scares dreams from the south
And plots this red course where weak men stop to go.
Love! – or waxy, yellow shame tightens the guts
Whilst malevolent water creeps up past my nuts.
This guilt in my mind and your honeycomb brain
Reveal to me nothing save reason to cut.
Soft cuts in a mid-corpse not too ready to die
Though fake blood streams past a gelatinous eye.
I’m not dead though still ripe for the worms and green birds
Who mock my illusion. Who needs words? Not I.
Thursday 4 November 2010
An introduction.
Hello. My name is Stewart, but that's not important.
This is me at the cairn of a munro called Stob Binnian. What one finds at the top of a mountain is profound clarity of thought and the joyous sound of silence; i adore feeling detatched from the sprawl of hollowness that i find in my reality below. I hope this diary can be my sea-level protest against the utter banality of modern life and a place where i can truly express myself.
From here on, nothing is literal: except this - thank you Ingrid.
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