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Jesus Christ, it´s yer mass

Personally, I find it crass

That ye died on the cross

Ti prove that humanity would gain frae yer loss

Were ye really the son o’ God?

Or just a concoction o´psychology

fir this planets barbaric sociology

Maybe an E.T

Frae a planet where beings are truly free

Frae murder, war and hunger?

Why still dae wi have destruction

on such a grand scale?

Did the de’il win

You fail?

Or is it still ti be decided?

Is the real battle in us?

When sometimes fate

guides our souls

Ti be pained,

crushed, ressurected

Now and then, love blinded.

Like at this time o’ year,

When some have the fear

Aboot the sadness faced aroond

What should be a celebratory table.

When you and yer gang o´disciples

were sitting at your supper table

having a munch

You knew ye´d be betrayed

Unfliching in death´s lights out face

Yer faither said, ‘be not afraid’

But, at this giving time of year

Some families gather

Drink too much

Then tell each other

What they´ve always been afraid ti hear!

Or, sit quiet efter grace

And stare at the year´s departed loved ones

The empty chairs,

the spare place.

Colleaugues, families, friends, even bairns

A time when no aw their sharing is love

But swearin aboot the injustice, abuse, biterness and grief

That your sacrifice never cured

Yet offers ti some; hope!

Someone should be liable

Fir that book ae shorts

ye were testimony of

Contradictory tales

which no aw ay us believe

Samsuns´ seduction,

revenged after his voluntary death

So God ti mankind really does deceive?

Thou shall do no murder…Except

Moses! Or was he just a bad interpretor of his own precept?

There are more than me, the faithless kind

Who are still guided by whatever that thing is

That makes each and everyone of us

A billion ti one chance ti grow fray the womb

And be delivered into this globe and its gloom

Is this the real hell away fray heaven?

Where we´re supposed ti be tested against:

Theiving, decieving, living, laughing, loving, killing?

Is greed a plan?

Where the resources food, water, wealth

Can nearly all be owned by a few.

The knock on effect of that selfisheness

Creating the suicides that challenge

The architect of all this

Omniscient, omnipotent, who?

On this ball of fools

In this voidless vacuum

The night sky is pierced by white dots

Where distance

In this plain of being cannot (yet)

Be got!

Unless We dig inside and listen

To our innner universe, deep

Here, our ancestrol answers keep

I used to wish I´d been aborted

Even now, this world and its madness

Has my future contorted

By the cruelty of mankind

Especially its on race pol-U.S  force

Is really a totalitarianist kind.

You can call this superflous

But as a fellow Scot and poet once wrote

(It´s Robert Burns I quote)

”If I´m designed yon lordlings slave

by nature´s law designed.

Why was an independent wish

Ever planted in my mind?

If not, why am I subject to

His cruelty, or scorn?

Or why has man the will and pow´r

To make his fellow mourn?”

And the rest of his genial verses

Live on like the time of a birth

Two thousand years ago

We call it Christmas, our thanksgiving

Some love it , some it hate it

Some are because of it

No longer living!

Because they were brainwashed

By the consumerism of it all

The advertisers dreams

Believed in the couture, shiny tinsels

Exspensive gifts

The ember popping fireplaces

Christmas puddings and cream

A’ they really discovered

Was how loud this racketeering farce

Ca´d the festive period

Could make them

Wi a’ their might

SCREAM!!!

Christmas time

Mistletoe and wine

Aye! For some!

 

Birdman reviewNets NewJimmy and drummer

The Fringe Binge

Super inflate ego

Try n’ catch

show after show.

Don’t ye know

the fringe is in toon.

Multinational,

mostly loons,

extrovert spoons!

Gulls soar,

below them the roar,

sometimes (mostly)

the snore,

at a cacophonous

banquet ae stage

ae streets, closes

an wynds.

For me the poet

am far frae blind.

That the councils

profiteering

hus murdered,

what used ti be quite

endearing.

Ah bet the fat cats

at locals they’re sneering,

whilst this stage

can rage

pull in mair

than just wage.

An that am afraid

means nose ti tail snail

ae everything.

Trains, buses, cars

even rickshaws.

Heavily guarded by street

permit laws (wi nae flaws)

Pretty pouts from every nation

on corners, smile, laugh

and hand oot flyers.

Nae use ti me,

am this toons biggest blagger

The barmy poet,

the unknown Jagger.

The arts in Scotland,

Find it hard ti reach

oot thur hand

Ti local talents,

Performers alike.

When a schemmie asks

they reply a polite.

“Call back another time”

be honest

say it right

“Take a hike, get oan yer bike”

Suits me fine,

coz oan yer liturgy

I’ll expose yer greedy crimes,

This is the 21st Century

ma opinions arenae

and will never be soley confined!

and coz the internet-igrity

willnae be a well guarded

secret for those sitting pretty.

 

This was written when I last lived in the city, indeed Scotland, (2001) and is by no means my opinion today. I have learned a lot about the new incentives for Scottish writers as well as the lottery funds that are helping more aspiring writers and artists from all over the world who are now based in Scotland.

I include my review for the two productions I contributed to for the sake of entertaining during the Fringe Festivals of 1996 and 97. Those were fun to write produce and act in.

I might add that the International festival is a heap of sh**! unless you’re loaded of course, then you get all that crap.

 

From my brief visit as a patient

 

Furnace fierce

Body pierce

Krakatoa boo

Bloody tattoo

hardly taboo

DNA goo

oozes and flows

via time’s throws

of swirling creation,

Agonies flirtation

galaxies birth

perpetrator’s girth

Strangles and rapes,

Collapsed star gapes

and sucks it all in

Labelled with love

Smothered in sin

Cosmic growth

Victim’s hope

The creation’s we were and are

Venus and Mars

Bled so far

through teardrops of blood

from big bang’s THUD!

Not quite of Assisi, but of ‘The Hailes’

This woman I knew, harder than nails.

Pleasant without,

But after a few

Her wit would cut through

Titanium rails

A gluttonous dram or cheap ‘any’ drug,

Made her aggressive, but

Some just like her, called it smug,

Daily and weekly, again n’ again

She’d quash her pains

I had her down as

Completely insane.

However,

She was loved by many

For her nonchalant shrug

Of the rock and hard place,

From whence she’d been born

And during the start of an Edinburgh Derby

While I’m sat in her boyfriend’s place

A mate of mine, with a nice big telly

(Call it a gut feeling in a literal sense)

I catch the glint of a kitchen knife

Fast approaching my belly

I kicked her away in self-defence

Everyone freaked out and stressed

At her revengeful impulsiveness

For a friend of hers

Who in a pub toilet enjoyed me

Almost undressed

Despite her lethal attempt

To teach a lesson in desires

Somewhere in all that fire

You couldn’t fail to admire.

Her victim of a victim quagmire

Like most of us, a survivor of dire

 

Today I found out she left this plain

“The witch is dead!”

How I had it explained

Poisoned by herself

Forever hungry for ‘higher than higher!’

“See ye then Francess!…

Oh and by the way?

I never wrote this to extract any p***

Your family, friends will I’m sure,

you, sorely miss.

I penned this from my own empathy

Of the very same hellish abyss

Because I really want to avoid

Leaving the same way

And allow time to consume me

In its natural way

Despite that void

That tells me the debts

‘will be paid’ ‘there has to be a way’

Being unemployable

Through my rants and old age

Perhaps my own haters may be charmed

To offer some dismay, forgive me my sins

The lies and trails of destruction,

Of abusing their trusts

Top of that list, womanizing disgust

But like you, I also am bipolarity cursed!

So I’ll do what I feel

And offer myself to the maker you recently challenged

Minus alcohol and the psychoactive lusts

Be well Francess

I hope you’ve found peace, calm and love.

 

 

 

 

 

I raced towards the forest with my daughter

Attracted by a sound like running water

And lone behold what a strange sight we found

A flock of grey thrush, in their hundreds around

My mind turned to Hitchcock and what he could’ve thought

To see a gathering of birds so abundant

My initial “Why?” was redundant

But soon found that their prey were rowans

Red, fruitful, late autumn remnants

And like the great man, I too was weirdly affected

By this obstreperous flurry and pecking

Hi folks

I’ve been wrapped up in work these last weeks so please excuse the delay with posts.

I intend on publishing a collection of my own short stories that I’ve amassed over the past 13 years. I will use Smashwords  to do this as it seems to be one of the few online publishers offering a fairly decent deal to the authors. As far as i remember they also give you an ISBN number and are targets for future talent via Barnes and Noble, Amazon, etc.

Smashwords also offer a service to have your book cover illustrated and designed, but they also offer authors like myself who are working with images and photography the dimensions to DIY it. I have not made my own yet, but recently I helped a friend with his and after some hours of screen sharing via Skype we managed to find his image of a four legged, masked girl with  a flying piglet on her lap…

Yes, of course, I did think it was a wind up when he first requested this image but soon realized his sincerity and here is what he got.

 

1919 - Outside blog

Anything can be created from imagination

I write this information here on the off chance that any of you writers and poets need book or CD covers. I have a nice stock sitting here (samples here ) not doing much apart from being eye candy for the net.

I’m also aware that cutting a living from being a wordsmith is not so great, so I will discount each case as it comes by as long as you’re being honest. The more you earn or claim the more you donate for my time and efforts please.

You know where I can be found.

Good luck with your missives and metaphors.

Power ti yer pens

 

Image

 

There is no crime if I don’t show it
For it’s a long time since I’ve been poet
Since January, one poem has parted
From my heart for another departed
Then career and need (and laziness)
Swapped verse and rhyme for video lens
Where interpretation of life and things
Choirs majestic to butterfly wings
Sunset’s flames, porpoise and minks
Driftwood beaver, daughter and teacher
Have been my new poetic features
Almost a lap around our sun, inspires I to return,
Ball’s point hurtles over this paper
As I pay homage to Lady Poet and my Saviour
With my guilt panged traditional behaviour
I’m instantly filled with power and the pride
That she’s always smouldering deep inside
Awaiting connections between our senses
She suggests to us possible verses
Through verb and metaphor she immerses
Repair from grief, to us poets, she blesses
Interrogates inner so outer confesses
Causing zoom and macro, elegant presses
Unfaithful? I don’t think that is really true
Judge for yourself at a screen near you

The sky between us

Trondheim’s yawning fjord

Embellishes a late February’s dusk

This lilac, pink, roseate ghost

Banners horizon’s ceiling

When earth’s shadow

Fuses night from day

An intricate pastel pause

Which is aptly named

Belt of Venus

Wakes divide a few short paragraphs

As fishing boats and ferries acutely slice

This temporary azure sheen

Three silver birch trees lead eyes

From this kitchen window on the stone hill

Up high

The verve of a seer sits on his zenith

Where he’s fed, content and

naturally enlightened

 

I still await my prey

Two weeks after

The season got under way

Nearly every day

I’ve hunted, tried

Still unsatisfied

Or am I?

I never took rod this day

But really seen, touched, smelled

A wide gaping river

On arrival

I am surprised

To come so close to

A red squirrel

Sitting sniffing the earth

Maybe for a stowed nut

I think

But got the feeling

It was curious at another beasts stink

Dark brown more than red

At first I thought it was mink

But pleased it was squirrel

Mink’s dish is mostly fish

This week’s post is short and sweet and something to think about from a guy called Edward De Bono who wrote a book I read years ago  ‘Lateral Thinking’

The trouble with creative thinking in art
is that it is so easy to stop halfway
Indeed the less talented have no choice
Escape from the old ideas becomes a virtue in itself
Originality is all
There is an enthusiasm to step down from the limitations of accepted order
into the limitless potential of chaos
But too often this step is regarded as an achievement in itself rather than only the first stage towards achievement
the true purpose of lateral thinking is not to wallow in formless chaos
but to emerge from it with an effective new idea
The new idea is likely to have a classic simplicity of form
It is likely to have an orderliness which is far from the formlessness of the chaos from which it emerged
The ideal aimed at in lateral thinking is the simplicity of extreme sophistication
The simplicity of an idea that is very effective in action and yet elemental in its form
It is the simplicity of richness
Not of poverty
It is the simplicity of fullness
Not of emptiness

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