Swimming

We stand around in our trunks

Uncomfortable at baring our bodies

Bellys hanging over

Fat arses squeezing into lycra

Nervously we start to chat

About the times when we all swam like dolphins

Please don’t make us prove it

Eventually we get cold

Milling about by the glaring poolside

Goosebumps start appearing

Our scrotums the size of walnuts

Splash!  He dives.  Big torpedo.

Down the steps gently for some of the others

Front crawl, breast stroke, back stroke

All different yet we’re all swimming

On the Psychological State of Dogs

I watched a cat

Returning home

It ignored me and

Slid through the flap

Specially built,

Ruined a door

Just for him

I met a guy

Walking a dog

It sniffed me and

Licked at my hand

Craving my love

Pulled on his lead.

Dogs are needy.

Scotland's Heatwave

This has just been published in an anthology called "A Book of Dreams"  will update details as and when I get them.  Enjoy.

Dishevelled by the sheer numbers

Faces shining from the heat

Of all the other shining faces

We multiply the temperature

With gasped hellos

All gulping at the thick humid

Vapours, guzzling down a drink

Or maybe escape with a smoker

We look for a solution

To cool outside

Disappointed by the fiery

Clouds retaining clammy

Low pressure systems broiling

We wither under heavy skies

And cannot sleep

Un

Run out of reasons

Looking for a motive

For anything

For everything

Every ‘WHY’ shouts back

Another giant question mark

And in creeps

Everything must go

Either that

Or I will

The world’s not big enough

For me

And my unanswered questions.

Indulgent One

In an old space

altered beyond recognition

as two floors, three at a push

become one

and a huge shark is replaced

by a great white plaster wall

and a DJ, one-eared at his phones

sways where once

a crocodile swam

with a chipped face

as it bore us on its back

inexplicably halved

by an old oil drum.

Yet I recall the emptiness

and the atmosphere

before the revellers come

sitting like a regular

waiting for the rest.

The newly fat

and recently bald

or greying

reminds us

that it wasn’t yesterday.

Herds and Flocks

The activity around me

The works

The offices

The traffic

Feels like death

A slow plod

Of monotony

Boredom

Numbness

Leading to the grave

For years I’ve sat

Here in this garden

Listening

The voices change

The fashions move

But it’s all the same

Holidays

Football

Money troubles

The same

The same

The same

Sirens hoot

Every day

Heart attack

Fire

Stroke

Always those

Seagulls whirl

Sparrows call

In them I see

Life, freedom

But it’s really

Just animal

instinct

Anger

We’ve all been angry enough

to kill someone

red mist and adrenalin

but somehow we don’t.

We shout, we scream

we smash the furniture

but the brakes kick in

and breathlessly

we leave it

sleep on it

and think again

yet some don’t

and we call them monsters

and deny that we’ve ever known

the touch of fury.

Composition No 2

Here's an old favourite:

Tensing, straining, holding muscles

Contort stance and visage

Breaks for readjustment

Turtle’s head touching cloth

Sitting, pensive, relief from strain

Stomach empty yet full

Adjusted and cleansed

But still the remnants

Are leaving on parachutes

Of fairy’s wing

Dented and creased re-cycled

The silvering handle makes

The orifice sing

And all is gone

Round the bend

Mank Boliday Honday

Sunny skies said Michael

and everyone smiled

and rummaged in the closet

for the lost sandals

and the hat of straw

we’d never ever wear.

Blue and bright our Monday

with everyone off work

all barbecues and picnics

by the green lakeside

that we never see

until this time of year

Hot and sweaty bedtime

with everyone awake

the duvet on the carpet

face stuck to the pillows

remains of the day

still buzzing in our minds

The Death of the Raconteur

When did it all change?

and why wasn’t I warned

that opinions are fleeting

so swiftly out-moded

by the clamouring hordes

with nothing to say

broadcasting it twice daily

then bragging about hits and likes.

The vandal takes his graffiti

off the cement and bricks

and with no flare or art

scrawls on a thousand screens

and defiles a million eyes.

So unprepared;

some lament the losses

as others count the gains

made in targeted advertising

that everyone ignores

till the subconscious pipes up

eventually with uncalled for suggestions

The joker’s delivery

his wit and repartee

replaced by handing on a handset

and watching for the smile and nod.

And this progress

is somehow better than unbridled laughter?

So the raconteur dies

or becomes an oddball rarity

occasionally feasting on human contact

thriving with emotion’s ebb and flow

till he ends up a random guy

reduced to a tweet.

Foiled Again

I was so disappointed

My plans, my schemes

Are ruined

I saw a commercial

For a spray-on cream

That got rid of hair

On lady’s legs, yes

But I began to wonder

Could I use that stuff

On an unsuspecting acquaintance

Instant baldness

How we would laugh

But I just found out

From those that know

(a lady no less)

that it wouldn’t work

Gutted

More tomorrow...

Background

There is a street

that’s never silent.

Doorbells chime

and cats meow.

Postmen whistle,

lorries rumble,

TVs clamour.

The only time

You can’t hear its nonsense

is when you shut the window

and go to sleep.

More tomorrow...

Delusional

The two of them walked by like they owned the place. No’ lookin’ at anybody; flauntin’ it; flickin’ the hair like a shampoo advert. And I felt like standin’ up and shoutin’: “See them? Aye them two that we’re no’ good enough fur! That’s them just oot the toilet. Aye. Knickers doon like everybody else. They’re the same as the rest ay us! Don’t let them shove ye aboot! Manipulatin’ bastarts.” Eyes narrowed I’d sit doon while everybody cheered and applauded. And them two? They’d be askin’ fur ma number later on. Oh aye. Cut through the performance and they’re hingin’ on yer every word.

More tomorrow...

Ouragan

Howling, tearing wind

Snatches, pulls, uproots

Stinging, blinding rain

Batters, beats, so cold

Heaving, restless sea

Thunders, roars and booms

Threatening, heavy clouds

Darken, dim, smother

Tiny, fragile boat

Blasted creaks and groans

Soaking, hammered wood

Staggers, floods yet floats

Peaceful, tranquil man

Sleeping in the barque

Cares not for the storm

Silent, trusts and waits

More tomorrow...

A Rant inspired by Ms C Houghton

My friend asked me recently if I enjoyed someone's preaching. A perfectly simple question to which my simple answer would be: "yes".

However, it actually started me thinking about what preaching is all about and whether or not we're supposed to enjoy it at all. In all honesty the question might be better framed: "How did you find X's preaching?" then I could employ all manner of adjectives to it; passionate, inspirational, informed, intelligent, witty, patronising, derivative, wishy-washy, authoritative... and so the list goes on. But is my opinion of it all that important? Do preacher's measure the success of a sermon by whether or not people enjoyed it? By the amount of amens and smiling faces. Personally, I don't listen to sermons for their entertainment value but I recognise that they can and do entertain. Sermons are at worst an affirming message that helps one keep that stiff upper lip and at best an attempt to convey someone's excitement about God to some eager listeners. But here's the difference. I am racking my brain to remember even one of the three points our mutual friend made in the preach I was asked about, what I do remember is the passion, the honesty and the heartfelt concern of the guy who preached it and these qualities continue to pour out of him whether he's preaching or not. Did I enjoy it? I don't even remember but I really really like the guy who delivered it and he's welcome to get involved in my life. I like to read C.S. Lewis but C.S. Lewis never gave me a hug when I felt unhuggable.

So my final answer? Did I enjoy the preaching? Sure, but I'm enjoying getting to know the guy behind it a lot more.

Mair the moarra...

Excerpt

The streets swarmed with people cocooned in metal starting and stopping at will, someone’s will anyway, all staring ahead at the car in front or the road and the next hazard on and on till journey’s end when the staring doesn’t stop but it’s now at that box that brought us all up and like a crazed mother can’t bear to see us go so panders to our baser instincts so we’ll give it our money (that’s what it eats, garnished with time) And the staring continues till something happens but the box knows nothing ever does and even the things that do happen end up with us back asking the box to show us what happened over and over again from all different angles that make everything ok because now we know what happened which is all we wanted; to see it and to see that other people are helping so we don’t have to.

More tomorrow...

It was funny at first...

I was at the pub quiz the other week. One of the questions was: "What type of bird is roadrunner from the roadrunner cartoons?" Turns out he's a cuckoo. A lot of people had written down that he's an ostrich. That made me snort with laughter. A tiny ostrich on the wrong continent? And it makes me chuckle a bit still. An ostrich? Come on.

However, I began to realise that the very people who think that roadrunner is an ostrich will be sitting on juries, teaching our children, investing our money, electing MPs. Aye, it's not so funny when you suddenly realise that people are stupid and they're running the world! They police our streets, prosecute criminals, drive buses and deliver our mail! They even write blogs and some of them read them. We're at the mercy of idiots and fools! AAAAAHHHHHHH!

More tomorrow...

If

Kipling keeps it real. 

IF you can keep your head when all about you  Are losing theirs and blaming it on you, If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you, But make allowance for their doubting too; If you can wait and not be tired by waiting, Or being lied about, don't deal in lies, Or being hated, don't give way to hating, And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise: If you can dream - and not make dreams your master; If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim; If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster And treat those two impostors just the same; If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools, Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken, And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools: If you can make one heap of all your winnings  And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss, And lose, and start again at your beginnings And never breathe a word about your loss; If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew To serve your turn long after they are gone, And so hold on when there is nothing in you Except the Will which says to them: 'Hold on!' If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue, ' Or walk with Kings - nor lose the common touch, if neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you, If all men count with you, but none too much; If you can fill the unforgiving minute With sixty seconds' worth of distance run, Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it, And - which is more - you'll be a Man, my son!

Position

Don't look down? Whatever mate. I love to look down at the herding hoi polloi and their lack of choice. See them bleat and follow. See me jealous, aloof by choice yet *sigh* how comfortable you all look.

More tomorrow...

The Young Team

Smash! Crack!

Bom Bom Bom!

With nicknames

I heard twenty years ago

Let’s go!

Same chat

Same names

Same fists

Same policemen and screws

Shake their heads as they

Remember turning the key

On his father

More tomorrow...

Haitin Divorce (an unadulterated rant)

Haiti has had an earthquake. Aye, Haiti where the national religion is voodoo and there are actually people who are bona fide registered as "zombies". (I shit you not) Let's send them money coz when yer shanty town shack has fell doon and you've no insurance and the government have a cabinet minister to protect people from the "heebie jeebies" that's a good investment. Aye, I'm John Travolta and I drove a plane here full of food for people who are sustainance farmers, to whom a sack of rice is 3 years worth of work and now I'm appalled at them fighting over it like savages! Here's whit tae dae. Haiti is next door to the Dominican Republic. All inclusive holiday? Wedding on a Carribean beach? Trade it in for a months rubble piling in nearby Haiti. Think aboot it. Los Angeles could be earthquaked any day now. Will the good folk of Haiti fly in to John Travolta's hoose wi a sackfull of corn? Naw. He's got insurance. He's got the American government to sort oot his natural disaster. If they fight it's coz they're starving. We're greedy: no them. Look in yer fridge. You could feed a couple of families and no be out of pocket. Forget money, it's just a bit of paper. Whit use is a precious stone at a time like this? Gold bars? Surplus metal. Love someone, in Haiti or next door. That's what we're all hungry for. (Rant over)

More tomorrow...

Extract 2

A shambled bus, empty like a forlorn fresh dug grave hissed past with hydraulics and its infernal consumption engine dusted behind it, heading to some closed up for the night depot with cold goodbyes and a signature for security and a shuffle home to grey sheets in an unmade bed. Watching it and its green glow insides all desolate made me turn my collar as I went on to where it had been before there was nothing left but sleep and a mechanical sigh.

More tomorrow...

Free writing from quotes

"One of my favorite philosophical tenets is that people will agree with you only if they already agree with you. You do not change people's minds." Frank Zappa

Inside us all is a 'real me'. This is the things that makes you upset with regret or that makes you blush when you make an arse of yourself. It knows you so well and cringes when you over perform or do something out of character. You should get to know this 'real me' and ask it for some advice. It's very very wise and is the best person on earth to take care of you. Sometimes you have to teach it to love the rest of you. But it's usually right. Trust it. Throw it a party. It will probably clean up the next day while the rest of you is asleep.

More tomorrow...

Crabs

Once viewed as an expensive delicacy only to be savoured on special occasions, crab is enjoying a resurgance in popularity thanks to its new status as a superfood.

According to a report by analysts TNS, sales of all types of crab have risen by almost 50%in the past year in the UK.

Stewart Crighton, general manager of the Orkney Fishermen’s Society said: “Undoubtedly crab sales have taken off. Part of the reason is that crab is now being eaten in a lot of different ways. It is being offered as an ingredient and with other seafood such as langoustine and mussels.”

Health conscious customers are recognising that crab meat is low in fat, high in minerals and a good source of iron, potassium, selenium and omega 3.

The shellfish has had exposure from celebrity chefs having appeared on Gordon Ramsay’s the F Word and Rick Stein has included it in his recipe books.

Environmentally conscious consumers opt for crab as a sustainable fish and a viable alternative to consuming breeds of fish from dwindling stocks.

Retailers are meeting the demand for the shellfish with Marks & Spencer introducing Snow Crab Legs priced at £6.99 for 100 grams.

Pisces Fishmongers in Hamilton report that more customers are ordering crab meat due to its exposure on television programmes and magazines.

Brigitte Read from the Sea Fish Industry Authority says: “Crab is now far more available. Previously, you could only get dressed crab or whole crab but now you can get it in lots of different ways that are easier for customers to eat.”

CRAB FACTS

1.5 million tonnes of crab meat is consumed world wide every year.

There has been a 20% increase in the UK catch in the last year.

One third of that catch (around 7000 tonnes) comes from the West coast of Scotland.

Brown crab is the most common edible crab caught in Scotland.

More tomorrow...

Psalm 24

In the dim, candle lit sanctuary priests glide noiselessly across polished floors. The air was heavy with a reverent silence broken only by the murmur of votaries and pilgrims. At the entrance, water trickled into golden bowls where the faithful washed their hands, making themselves pure.

They were here to see the king, to seek his justice and to align themselves with this mighty one. They were cleansed, shining with oil, smelling of precious ointments, dressed in the finest festal robes, perfect, ready to meet the king.

Suddenly, the silence was broken: “Doors! Open the doors!” The doorkeepers were confused: “What? Who for?” “Doors! Open up! The king returns from battle!” The doors were hastily pushed open as one doorkeeper asked another: “Who’s coming?” “Dunno. Something about a king?”

Still the order was ringing: “Doors! Open the doors!”

In strode a giant of a man, the conquering king, his great chest heaving from the exertion of warfare. His helmet fell with a crash on the spotless floor and sweat dripped from his brow, thick with grime and gore. His hands were drenched in the blood of his enemies.

The pilgrims were stunned as he turned to them, and, with a smile, holding out his arms said: “Welcome to my temple.”

More tomorrow...

Hero Worship

Laying traps with carpets is the reality we fable-ize as sweeping them under there like a spider in a glass yeah great it’s no longer scuttling, crashing in its offensive arachnid manner but now you fear the glass and the little mind’s eye circle of influence around it until someone sees it for what it is, a puny tiny thing terrified that needs freeing, needs dealt with in a permanent way, no longer a hash-bash one up one down lean to ramshackle temporary elastoplast job that creates further issues without addressing the main deal.

More tomorrow...

Pleasant Distraction

The drone of a bumble bee

Joining birdsong’s chatter

Making me look up

From the sunsoaked page

The ink flowing so slowly

Undisciplined thoughts

Drifting from this place

To join with a girl

Who lives in another town

Who cannot be here

Making me wistful

Stealing half my mind

My eyes close, her face appears

I have to give in

Smiling I put down

The pen for a while

More Tomorrow...

Loosened

Thoughts weary me

Worry me

Cause chemicals

To course

Cascade

Setting me on edge

Of my teeth

Of razor

Slits serrations

Of sin

Sinew

Making me all tight

Like a drum

As skin

Set crawling

And creeping

Clawing

At my mind

The gap please

Your head

And its whilrlwind

Of whips

Wailing

Making you cry

Like a baby

Havoc

And loose the thoughts

Of war

Against yourself

More tomorrow...