Glasgow is witnessing a fine day,
sun city warm sand,
there are some breakdancers
in the street below,
the crowd applaud
between acts and performance.
Everything is quite inoffensive.
The Pigeons mill about,
get in the way, flap into face,
shit on the fly.
The Sun is roast warm,
beats down upon us,
as we walk on the giant
frying pan of City streets.
Glasgow isn’t bad all the time,
No one is on high alert,
the sun disarms, the clouds
are as fluffy as cotton,
as candy floss, as smoke
from an old mans pipe.
It is a nice day,
And far away is Egypt,
Worms tunnel soil earth,
someone is freshly decompsing
in a week old grave somewhere
in Linn Park Cemetry.
The ash of my distant friends
bones are long gone into the air.
A History of War, relaxes in memory
for a second, everything is put onto
the shelf from worry.
And as colourful as the capercaillie
the rainbow comes…someone coughs…
there are no pots of gold…no magic…no utopic cure…
we march through the arteries of the city
Sweaty, bursting with animal hair, and flaky scalps
The street is a picture. You only have to look,
to see the lonely beauty of a chance life
in atomic time and space, you beautiful
stinking Mooncalfs…