A Wee Boat in the Bright Night

The cello swells
But the sea lies flat on a hairless chest.
Seemingly though, a ship swims back to shore
With no sextant or logical love for
Land or prose or personality type.
A trap i swear,
A single wave to cast away the sky
could never be.
This little ship, with it's single faultless sail
Now sinks,
Down.
Gone. But always there in my medium heart.

Locked In Syndrome

My tight eyes,
Are my hands and and my un-sex,
My fist clenched dribble language,
And my screeching banshee heart.
A stick thin snigger of benefit flesh,
Though never once choked on the gloop-food
Squeezed through the hole in my face,
Where a wired voice is strangled silent.

The second he opens his eyes,
He looks at the telly,
Turns to find last night's curry,
Which he starts eating,
Cursing last night's bad luck.
He didn't get a fuck,
And spent all his giro,
In a nightclub where no one could hear him.
The electronic sounds were too loud.

City Living

Whilst the ash red twilight groans,
And the pretty cars chase themselves
Through slate grey Glasgow streets:
I will stay here.

As my sleep dipped brain sweats fret,
Spun by a dirty, manic wind
That blows into a hole:
I will stay here.

Amongst the bustle and murder of hope,
Where language and defiance die
A digital half-death:
I will stay here.

Where i find her, beautiful and content, waiting for me, at the station: I will live there.