Wha’s Doctor Wha? Wha better kens nor he that jouks the yetts and rides the birlin wheels o time and space, shape-shiftin as he reels through endless versions o reality? Bit dis he ken himsel? Weel, mibbe sae, yet wha’s tae ken gin aw that’s kent by Wha maks mair or less or better sense […]
Don’t mind if it’s in Sign,
Or words in witty lines…
A yellow dawn breaks on the airport of my childhood
Thick air of spices and warmth and tenderness
Enters my nose and brings out a wave of nostalgia
And here I am, the home of my soul
Don Meuang embraced me like a long lost lover
Something near to true
night-darkness. The children
are playing the Plinky-Boat –
a xylophone made
from a reclaimed yoal
Always
Solitary
Home
Excellent
Yet
Lonely
And I wish it
Never
Empty.
small oats rye bere barley
ripe harvest in late summer
a shallow ploughing
grazing and fallow in rotation
We all
/ Expect
/ Literature to
/ Look special…
A Critique of Dialectical Reason…
In the Central Café
/ in Innsbruck,
/ a girl in a dark-blue dress
/ unlooses her hair from its clasp
/ so it falls to her waist,…
/ Red neon burns
/ on brickwork: Tyres & Exhausts.
/
/ As if we didn’t know.
/
/ The hunt’s livener
/ outside the Tontine.
/
/ A trail of port in the…
/ At the raw end of winter
/ the mountain is half snow, half
/ dun grass. Only when snow
/ moves does it become a hare.
/
/ If…
It’s morning and it’s just the two of us
/ in the Transit crew-bus, driving out to work,
/ past dew-hung spruce, in this…
