06.47

December rain.
a tam 'o shanter nightmare
drugs drippin' outta me
scarred arms and frantic wet dreams
a wooden bagpuss' proffesor yattle,
trapped inside a Victorian record player,
hideous dry feathers
all wrong
the thing turns and its creaking unreality

jars me to heart stopping wide awakidy
dream body coaxed back with cigarettes and gulps of wine
blood matted hair
amazed at the vibrant shining red as it dripped through my fingers
the perfect mathematics of the crimson spots
on the ancient tiled floor of a hell-blown landing
in Torry.

There's something behind you man
it drags it's bloody bandages and calls... "My brother, my seed".
the shadow.

I leave him spazzing out. he has fuck all to do with me, yeah we usda be close.

but I am impeccable now. deaf to the wail of the seagull. blind to the desolation of greasy paper and drunks with purple grape vine noses

blind to the pavement beggar, I hear not their pleas for alms.

the grey sky presses down on the warped steeples and chimney stacks, red liquorice ribbons, unnatural vistas, like El Greco's ‘View of Toledo‘.
a cemetery, kebab shop, taxi rank.

I stop, look, taste the venomous air, am transported well above this floating city

I wish I could show you. come with me, I can!
aye, the city in glorious flame
it licks at yer door-stop,
all the chippers and bars and thick carpeted hotels
are reduced to burned cathedrals of grinning colour photo's

and more than this...

a hailstorm, battering artillery, even the rodents are reluctant to leave...
this way life, this way the incinerator.

from the charcoal and burnt brick we are liberated and we dance a savage dance of fucking and fighting and raiding.

The city rests in our lungs. eventually, we'll re-create it in it's new shining image.