when it rains in scotland
the glistening shimmering skies
are a shade called wistful

the beasts of tears and anger
tired, beat by their own fury
collapse by the banks

and in the middle a pool,
deep, deeper than the original sorrow
fills with memories. snapshots. echoes of words.

footprints. of a beautiful,
vibrant passionate life
that died so impotent, so young
thank you. for the new pain you brought.
as the weights of the collective crosses
i'd chosen, or stumbled upon, settled
and time polished the sharp edge of my thorns,
the old pains had been growing rusty
like an artists old pen
and the blood in the nib was drying
so thank you for the new wounds
and thank you for the rain
the tears that cleaned the rust away


missing missing

can you have a equivalent of being in love with love, for heimat? i am homeless, i am the gypsy. everyday i am homesick. everyday my homesick bears a new name. syria, calcutta, edinburgh

where do homeless hearts go? will they ever find home?

do you know ...

the kind of days that seem so unreal
that you just dont register them
and nights that are so lonely and blue
that you could cry
and realization, sits perched
at the corner of the duvet
and taunts you with a hideous grin and rotting sore teeth
and eyes brimming with blood
and pinches each drop of sleep
between a gnarled bony thumb
and fore-fingers
popping them like
the little pearls of bubble wrap
and you lay there night after night
heart racing
watching the movie reel of
all your crimes, past-present
and the punishment present-future
you watch, petrified,
as the devil waves the receipt for your soul under your nose
and you dream of your lovely voice
with which you could have told the prince your tale
had you not sold it for a pair of legs
with which to go watch him dance with someone else
and cry at the hopelessness of your fate
and the prince kindly on his way out
pats you on the head with benign affection
good dog
and curiously fingers an ugly strand of wayward hair
on your ugly mutt face
and with the kind, benign cruelty of indifference
places the last straw in your beggers plate

have you ever felt the heart rushing panic ...

of a sneaking suspicion that you missed the last bus?
love, babies, wisdom, glory, a calling, words, thoughts, fame, name,
everything came knocking, and then
by the time you woke up,
it had passed laughing by down the corridor,
while you stared groggily after it
rubbing your eyes.

and the few times you did wake up
and say to yourself, no not this time
and took up chase after it
when you caught up, and
grabbed him by the shoulder
and said wait a minute, you were my opportunity
you just came knocking on my door a second ago
he turned, and in a fleeting second
you were in the market place
saying this is nothing more than an illusion
struck by the thunderbolt of belated realisation
awakening like in hunt's little piano girl
jolted out as if from a dream ...
and then you turn
and still barefoot, and groggy eyed
flee back to your room down the corridor
while the spectre, now macabre post-realisation,
runs after you you weeping, clawing, throwing
steel ropes of pity-entitlements, and but-i'm-yours-and-only's
and claims, and tears, and beggings and alms-demands,
coming after you, while you run, run, run
lightly like holly,
trailing a black river of running-mascara
to mark all your mis-paths
you run