Grasp the Thistle

I guess we’re growing oldlike thistles in the drought-parched park where we all dieslow in summer;Our seeds have blown away as shadows slowly fallto cover up the cracksof crippled lovers. We leave nothing more than dustthe carvings of a stonethat michaelang’lo smoothedwith sweat and a chisel;For fate is just the same foreach and everyone soface … Read more


Economic policy up hereis Whoreism,defined as:“prostituting land to uncaring wild-camping tourism” And a Whoreist we canthus define:“as one who visits the Highlands, blindly litters and defiles” Alas it comes to this:(if we believe the moneymen)our prosperity dependson what it isthe Whoreist spends. This is the fallacyof an economic thesis:to sellour Highland soulfor Whoreist-faeces?

Earrann Bìth

She went to Courtto Justice find.It was not thereto find alas.Do lawyers lie?Are judges blind?Is? the Law of Scotsan ass? Oh Earrann Bìththe gods decreethat Justice youwill one day see.The men who laughedand the witches too will dearly payfor raping you. Set your sailfor o’er the seaThere is JusticeEarrann Bìth.

River of Love

Let us drift down river you and IOn the flood, effortlessly We’ll sweep beyond the places we passedWhen we rowed upstream adventurously We’ll slow and look aghast at the over-hanging branchesThe Tacksman’s tree at last is hanging lifelessly The bark on its back ripped-off like rags and flowersNakedly searching for a soteriology Lest we shake … Read more


We sorrowed Jesters dance slow reelsshedding tears in happy masquessinging,“broken hearts don’t ever mendthus we learn to live with cracks.” The waning moon much more the realthe other fools us with its waxbreakinghearts: they never mend, solearn we must to live with cracks.


We continuously sharpen the knifeSharpening with stealthYou seeBut we never get round to cuttingCutting ourselvesFreeWe always have something pressingPressing downRelentlesslyHolding the knife to the lightHoping we hopeHonestlyHow else can we be caged like parrotSongless parrotUnfree


I walked along the yellow blue beachand up Asc na Greine; to Col-bheinn I climbed.The sun over Tubairnaich cast a wee shadow,it’s tilting to Smeòrail told me the time:‘twas time for a dram from our clan-crested flask(our uisge beatha can clear up our minds).I gave thanks to our Prince with words from Culloden:“tis grand we … Read more


Did they eye-up the tree of lifeWhet their axes and take their aimvirgos-intactum upon their knivesAs they dined-out on Bread of Shame The starving still seek food banksWhilst these pinstripes fiddle covid grantsBlood-axes sharpened their blades well-whetSo all our babies will pay their debts

My Bitch

My bitch is in heatStrange hounds at the doorShe was my angelNow she’s a whore She struts like a strumpetHer ears cocked on-highManically sniffing forHer kind of guy My bitch is in heatHer anatomy’s changedWhen she sees a studShe becomes quite deranged She whines in the morningAnd howls through the nightHer puppy-dog eyes sayI want … Read more


If I live to seventy then there’sthree thousandsix hundredand fifty of these …blues days after Sundays afterweekends gone by. Too many lost to history andsentiments andnew beginnings as I liefearingthe week ahead that is a giftif I can survivethe nonsense in my headbecause of what Boomtown said:“I don’t like Mondays” or“better off dead”. The better … Read more