the dream

The dream of control

eludes me again, as I wait

for her word, knowing 

the truth already.

The dream of control

eludes me again, as I wait

in another country

for news slow to come.

The dream of control

mocks me, dangling

just outwith my finger

stretched grasp.

The dream of control

always giving hope

but never giving

that which I seek.

The dream taunts me,

lets me imagine a world

that goes my way

that won't exist.

A dream, as so many

that I would rather 

not have.

We're not on the run

They think they have us
we're not on the run
the battle's not over
our war is not done
we're girding our loins
to renew our fight
we'll take them all on
and we'll show them
we're right

They have the money
but we have the mass
they have the media
we stand as a class
together we're stronger
together we're feared
we'll show our rulers
what subjects
they've reared

united we'll conquer
divided they'll fall
workers together
we can have it all
we don't need to cower
to scrape or to bend
they fear our might
and we'll win
in the end

Heading home

The livid late afternoon winter sun
Sets behind me in the West, over you,
As I drive away Eastwards, heading home
The sun sits low,  my mirrors sparkle
And I think of you, behind me,  bathed in light,
As I drive into the dark, towards Dundee.

The music in my car tells tales of romance
As I leave you behind, in the glow beyond the hills.
Other people's tales of love in song
Remind me that I have taken leave of you,
That our time together is curtailed once more.
As I drive into the dark,  towards Dundee.

To hold you brings a peace I need.
Thoughts of hasty embrace in borrowed time
Make me smile once more, thinking of you
And imagining what is yet to come, I find
the trip home less terrible,
As I drive into the dark,  towards Dundee.

Passion inspires

Passion inspires

And you have passion 

You convey an enthusiasm

That catches eyes,  turns heads.

Passion inspires

And you have passion. 

Your every word conveys it

The gleam in your eye shows it.

Passion inspires

And you inspire me.

Keiss Morning

The pixillated reflections of sun on harbour water
dance squarely on internal walls
as the morning slowly becomes acceptable
to hungover heads

The sizzling of French toast promises
the settling of stomachs
roughened by beer
and a scent of bacon builds hope

The day to come offers rest, chatter
and a chance to explore.
table tennis tourneys
and a settling there of scores.

spirits rise by harbour walls
away from it all
at peace in Keiss

John's laugh

A laugh that will aye linger
in my heart,  and in my ear.
An initial snort,  followed
fast by an explosive aftershock
that rang louder than the first
and to the last day I saw him,
that never faltered,  remained true.

A musical soul that found
electronic expression when
fingers failed,  and over ether
shared feelings and thoughts
without words

A true man,  a kind man,
a caring man,  to the last
John thought of others.
In finding his peace,
he leaves our world a better place
for having known and loved him.

For Lisa too

I believe you
I love you
And I will always be here.
You deserve love.

For Lisa

An intimacy that needs no words
A companionable silence that brims with love
An understanding that has ever been.

When we talk,  it has value,  brings joy.
When we talk,  even of nothing, love is conveyed
Without words we love,  with words we engage.

A whole family that is other and mine
An inclusion so touching as to bring tears
That is what you give me, and I love.

Croydon Nights

A low level chuntering tune

signifies the continuing work

of an air conditioner

in need of service.

Six lights around the room

allow sight, yet still somehow

a gloom lingers, and the warm

neutral colours seem muted.

seven hangers dangle

one coat between them

mocking the extraneity of

its empty brethren.

A tv sits unwanted, 

unwatched, and a phone 

lies bored, unused.

overpriced into silence.

A functional bed awaits 

an occupant, pillows awry 

from earlier spreading out

it promises warmth

but not sleep.

Contrition inside a foggy window

In the dark splashing rain I stop the car. 
Thanks are given,  kind words said,
A hug,  a peck on the cheek before exiting and then it happens.

Our lips meet.

Our actual lips

Actually meet.

It is brief,  it is asexual,  it is innocent.
gratitude expressed with an every day gesture,

She knows of my past sins, 
Of my ridiculous youth

She knows of my inane babble.

But briefly she indicates that these
may not make a mockery of long held hopes.

Briefly,  with her lips,  and my lips
She grants me hope again

I drive home that night smiling.

Perspective gained

Lying beneath the stars
on a cloudless night,
their distance humbles,
our failure to grasp
the infinite reinforces
just how small we are.
We need that sense,
perspective gained,
through taking time
and watching them.
Guessing only
how much there is
we do not know.

Moved by a shirt

With the beautiful innocence
of the very stoned man,
His imagination is captured,
enthralled,
by the motion of a shirt
Unable to contain his glee, 
Explosively he expresses his joy
Eloquent in its purity
"shirt that moves! Wey!"

Ennui for Henri

Ennui for Henri
Who was playing the wii
to stave off boredom
before tea

Nothing sparked our plucky fella
whose wii sports golf skills were quite swella
Boredom burdened his weary soul
although his house was bountiful
full of electronic games
exotic pets with local names
films on discs in massive number
could not arouse Henri from slumber

Henri was a fickle lad
and sad to say,
he turned out bad...

Another moany poem about my broken ribs

my insides are out of alignment
strange clicking sensations
accompany minor moves
I feel them without great pain,
but then,
a jolt sears through me
as if muscle tears from bone
once more, and leaves me
whimpering, alone

Ribs (broken, not king or spare)

The indignity of agony
As bone grinds on bone
And muscles tense
Is not lost on the me that
Observes all,  and winces
Not from the pain,  but
From the shame
of weakness seen
By others

The jolts of a broken cage
Seeking to reset itself
Inhibit conversation
Prohibit activity
Embarrass and remove
The protective layer of
Projected image that cloaks
The weak self within

Swearing and sweating
I am driven through the dark
To doctor new,  where I remove
My shirt and show my shameful
Flabby form in hopes of relief
That will not come
Nothing heals ribs but time

Sympathy just makes it worse
So all I do is swear and curse
And sweat and moan
And wish for peace
That will not come
And regret my fall
But nowt will numb
My ribs

The idea of a man

I work better as the idea of a man, 
Without form,  
without haste,  
without nerves. 
To be imagined from afar
Touched only in your mind
Seen only in your memory 
Rose tinted and rose scented. 
Better in thought than in flesh, 
Or over ether, deliberate, 
With thought in word and pictures drawn 
Of time spent in reflection. 
The true self lies,  of course,
somewhere in between
The rash,  rushed boy
and the considered man. 
The idea hovers above,  transcends. 
Your presence is not to blame
For that which it inspires in me
The fault is mine,  the blame lies here.
Remember only that boyish words of haste 
Spring forth from nervous mouths, 
And that the idea of a man
is watching 
Cautioning 
Wishing 
For the peace he once found with you. 

Kissing her

Her kisses are emphatic,  Ardent.

They seem to speak of a desire to become one,  

to reach a new state of mutual being.

The reading of minds 

and merging of souls

to be achieved through parted lips

and twists of tongue so searching 

as to leave no shelter for guilty secrets.

Uncovered, denuded of our artificial exteriors, 

the only options are to run or willingly surrender.

I choose surrender to her embrace,  

her kiss,  

her knowing me.

I choose to kiss,

and find peace.

Feathers

Conflict pervades, persists,
as those without influence
seek to exert what little power they have.

To fan out their feathers
and display their strength 
to those with whom they would mate.

Those who suffer,  however, are
those with no feathers to fan.

The victims of the ambition
of feathered fops,  they are
defenceless, unless,
standing together,  they fight.

No hollow display of plumage can withstand
the power of their unity.

Together they can win.

What has Hiroshima to do with Dundee?

From the heart of Dundee rises the Law,
a solid volcanic plug from which the city can be seen
miniaturised by perspective
shrunk by our relative height.

On Hiroshima Day, we gather
we remember all those who died
an indiscriminate death to prove a hollow point.
A death callous in its impersonality.

We stand together, and we remember them all.
We hope their death may at least prevent more,
but we contemplate what more would mean
to us, to our Dundee.

Spread out around us we see the homes of our friends
we see the world as we know it intimately
and we see, more than ever on Hiroshima Day,
how fragile that world is.

If one bomb could end it all,
if one bomb could take away those we love
if one bomb could destroy all that we know,
then the rock of the Law is as sand.

Hotel rooms

Hotel rooms seldom offer much
To rest the weary soul
A bed,  a shower,  a telly screen
But that won't fill the hole
A wholly empty,  aching gap
That craves for your touch still
A need that festers into hurt
As I take my sleeping pill
The air con hisses, shower drips
The bed groans as I turn
I close my eyes and try to sleep
But still for you I yearn.

Security, seen from a car

Frozen in my fleeting, passing perception,
a child is out of his buggy,
sat on the wall of a bridge.
He sits at shoulder height to his mother,
and her arms are tightly round him,
not to restrain him, but to enable him,
to let him see further than his height allows.
He may not know it, but in so many ways,
without her, he would not be there.

Ode on an ultra marathon

In misted car
We sit in peace
Hearing words that
warm the soul
Cake is eaten
Juice is drunk
To wash down
cold meat rolls
We wait for Ian
Running his hills
And laugh at Stephen Fry
We hope that Ian
Does not fall over
Or by some other means die

Perspective

Abroad you see class war and you call it noble
While in your front garden,  children are starved
A government wages war on its own people
Dehumanising, dividing, society scarred
You talk a good game,  but you won't raise a finger
You call out for justice,  but won't take up arms
You bicker and slander and join in division
It's easier to do that - fighting is hard
But soon you'll be caught out by those who are watching
The won't's will be toppled for those who are will's
The folk on the bottom can't handle this pressure
They will rise up and resolve all their ills.

The scan

A still image,  monochrome,
Yet so redolent of potential,
Of life,  of hope.

Taking nurture from a mother,
Growing,  developing every day
Towards new life.

The mother's womb develops,  defends
A babe not yet ready to face
What lies without, yet soon they will
Spring forth into a wider world

The world they shall enter
Lacks compassion, lacks fairness,
Amoral, it leeches spirits.

But they shall not want for either
At home they will find both
And love. Always love.

And that home shall defend them
From the world and its leeches
Until they leave that second womb
strong enough to take them on.

Constitutional monarchy

Things are not the way they should be
One baby screams its way into a world
Conditioned to honour it
While thousands are born that will never
See their first birthday for want in a world of plenty.

To offer owt but joy for an unnamed sprog
Whose parents do *such a good job*
- In positions never advertised -
Is babyhating bucolic bluster
To be accepted is to toe the line.

The industry of adulation may well intrude on his private life,  

but the pay,  I hear, is good,  and the perks are marvelous.
You even get a uniform and staff discount on tax. 

And as for National Insurance...

My baby,  yet to come, 
will be loved and looked after.
My baby will learn that respect is earned through effort and application
My baby will learn to play,  and my baby will Learn to resent those that play the system
Of British hereditary wealth to maintain positions they don't deserve.

But they do *such good jobs*
*such hard jobs*
*Such noble jobs*

Tender the lot of them.
Advertise for others to take on their roles.
Pay them a market rate for these.
Let the market - which knows all -
decide if we might not be better
with a head of state that has lived a real life.

Then buy them a nice big suburban house, 

 pension of 25k a year each and let them reign over it. 

Possibly a cul de sac .
Maybe in Blantyre.

They knew about hard work there.

self

Not being the same

As others or myself before

Constantly reinventing,

Challenging, renewing

To be original

And different

To be me.

Why?

Because to be the same holds no appeal

To recycle, to reheat,  to reprise

Holds no challenge,  and what is not fresh

Fails to excite me

So how can it excite another?

To feel that I have done something mine

And mine alone

To be me for others.

To be me for me.

Kim and the Clock

Once every hour

Of the day that is our lives

The hands of the clock touch

Entwined,  as one,  they rest

Experiencing together a moment

Pure and relaxing,  of unity and love.

But the moment ends

And hands are rent asunder

Unsure if they shall meet again

Ere the clock stops.

But for that moment, that isolated

Minute of perfect contentment

And harmony,  they know love.

If it comes to pass that

They should meet again, where will each be?

They meet at different times,  in different places,

But each knows the other for what they are,

Were and will be.

Each knows love.

Dust of Jarama

These boots bear the dust of Jarama.
In the grain of their leather
Lie the ashes of ideals.
I will not polish them away.

No shine could make them mean more
To scrub off history is not to improve
But to forget those who lived and died a truth
I will not polish them away.

Children raised without fathers
That died in Spain for what was right
Should not be erased from our minds
I will not polish them away

These boots bear the dust of Jarama
That dust is borne with pride.

Platitudes and truisms

The bland mediocrity of "this is nice" 

Is not for me. 

The saying of something to fill a vacuum 

Of words to try and bridge a void

Is an abuse of language 

And of nature's gifts

I want to engage on a plane of ideas

I want my mind to feel tested,  challenged

To travel in thought and to set the world right

I want to soar beyond

The tedium of toe tapping torpor.

With you,  a door opens to decades of discussion 

Of doubt and debate, of life. 

With you,  ideas take on a life that moves me. 

With you,  I come alive. 

With you,  I could live.

A gamble

A companionable silence

Hands clasped

A discussion of life

And redemption from

Past sins

Never to be lost

Your affection 

Brings to me

A knowledge of self

That is new

A desire unfolds

To know this forever

To feel this without end

To feel you

Forever

Is it possible 

That this could last? 

That we could know this

Gentle jumble of emotion

ever more?

We will never know

Unless we try

Unless we roll those dice

Gambles scare, but

Can reward.

Kristy's cake

Kristy's cake

By Hamish Drummond, aged 33 and a bit

It isn't just pizza that Kristy delivers,

But birthday cake treats that go straight to the withers*!

Topped off with icing and tasting of yum

What's not on my withers it goes on my tum :(

*horses have them,  I think,  so I assume we do too.  And I'm choosing to interpret it to mean 'bum'  here. So I'm using quite a lot of poetic licence, really.

reflux

reflux

slowly digesting myself from within
the pressure builds and limbs grow weary
sweat forms, drips, chills
mouth waters.

No ready cure, no medication
can end the torment or clear a mind
distracted and distorted by acid
that eats away.

stillness for fear of worsening
its hold on me, of agitating the
already agitated self that
would consume me from within

Please note that no king rib suppers were consumed in ten days prior to writing this. I've actually mostly been eating salad.

Which is why I was thinking wistfully about king ribs.

Woodland sunrise

Waiting amidst the trees 

For sun to rise o'er distant hill
Hands entwined, smoke in our eyes
We can face the world
Together.

Nobody but us to see it
For all we know this purity
Is ours alone.
The soft tumult of waking birds
Our only accompaniment

Together in our silence we listen
To the birds,  to the trees,
To the morning
Sleep holds no charm
Compared to this contentment

The breeze blows smoke all around, 
But smells fresh, brings promise
of a sweetness that we will share
Together amidst the trees
Tomorrow.

Tarfside

Tarfside

Amidst trees and smoke
Contentment reigns
As friends old and new
Forget the city and settle.
In song they come together
Around the fire
Forgetting the pains and worries
Of another day,  another life
Without caution they enjoy
What it was, once, to be alive
The sound of the trees
Of birds and beasts
Of ale and wine they sup
And cast off all that ails them
In glenesk , they find something.
In Tarfside, they know
all they need is peace.

The Scottish King Rib Supper

The Scottish King Rib Supper

Sae wrang it's right!
It's made ae shite!
The Scottish King Rib Supper!
Made o mystery meat,
Pure seasoned feet,
Deep fried in lard or butter!
Wi salt n sauce
Nae vinegar tosh
An aroma that's amazin
Through chip shop windows
Noses to glass
bairns at King ribs are gazin
Fur the flash there's fish
And chicken too
But they cost a pretty penny
For a massive feast
That'll stuff yer breist
King ribs are the choice ae many.
If I get wed
Afore I'm dead
At the wedding I'll be scoffin
That mystery meat, 
made ae Seasoned feet
That'll put me in ma coffin

Progress

They call it progress

But we call it pain.

For poor working people

It's always the same

Our jobs they are cut

As machines they do more

They call it advancement

But we know the score

Our pay it is frozen

Our living costs rise

But all they can offer's

More pie in the sky

The bosses they tell us

We have it so good

But people are struggling

To give children food

We can make a difference

Things can't stay this way

If we stand together

We will win the day

The moral is simple

Hae no heed for their lies

Let us stand together

Let us do, or die.

Statement of intent

I've tried to blog before personally, but didn't really manage to find a coherent theme, and time constraints meant that I didn't keep it up and tailed off very quickly.

I have,  however,  started writing a bit more of late in a slightly (but entirely untrained) poetic vein,  and I thought I might as well put it out there in case anyone is interested.

I'm going to try and theme this around the basic first principles that inform my politics and my life in general,  but there may well be a deeply disturbing insight into my romantic life from time to time,  and there will be at least one about the delights of King Rib Suppers.