Thoughts on a Frightened Rabbit – written 12 May 2018

Male, working class, Scottish… Yer fucked right from the off there. Can’t finish a sentence without making a joke. Slagging yer pals is the done thing and “ya cunt” is a term of endearment. It’s not that it’s a macho thing… It’s… Cosa nostra, man, it’s our thing… It’s how you know a cunt is a good cunt, know?

But, it can make it hard to talk, hard to cry, hard to “stop the fucking bus” and wait a wee minute in pregnant silence with a close pal… and just fucking say…

I’m guilty of it. I’m a closed book, a loner. I’ll deal with it myself, no need to bother anyone with my shite. They’ve all got their own shite. Make joke, crack smile, make a funny fucking face, everything’s fine.

I never get depressed, just a constant melancholy that I’ve somewhat made my peace with. Somewhat. Never excited, but never broken down in sadness. Only tiny little things make me smile. Male blackbirds. Trees. Clouds. A breeze. All that clichéd shite, man. I can meditate on a tiny moment. That’s my peace. I write my haiku like a coo coo ca choo and that’s my small release.

Depression is another thing – an untamed animal that sleeps amongst the folds of your mind and awakes with fury and vengeance at any time it pleases. Churchill called his the Black Dog.

The Black Dog can be tamed, neutered, sedated into a fog of not-quite-there-ness. But the dog still remains with a bark equally as ferocious as its bite.

Only Slowly

Only slowly, the wind moves.
The house remains the same.
Only slowly, the rain swirls.
The house remains the same.
Only slowly the dark clouds crawl.
The house remains the same.

Front of the Rain

The house where I spent my teenage years

Was perched on top of a hill.

You could see the front of the rain

Move across the horizon, and sometimes in the house too.

St George’s Day poem (a day too late due to delivery limitations caused by Brexit)

Dear England

You grim, unpleasant land

Thanks for voting brexit

We’ve never had it better

Love, Scotland, Wales and Northern Ireland

Eric the Jouster

Eric was a loner
He liked drive by fights
He studied martial arts
He wore kung-fu tights

You’d see him in the car park
In his Renault Clio
Jousting for the people’s hearts
Or to win a trip to Rio

(He jousted a man in a Vauxhall Nova
His little Renault Clio tumbled the fuck over)

And yes he knows that jousting ain’t a martial art
But Eric doesn’t give a fuck, he knew that from the start

Eric was a loner
He liked drive by fights
He makes good money every night
The jousting little shite

I’m Starting a New Job Tomorrow

I’m starting a new job tomorrow.

I applied for a new job (my fourth new start in 15 months) a few weeks before all the ‘Rona shit started happening… then the ‘Rona shit started happening, so I forgot about it. It’s with the same firm I work for just now.

I had a telephone interview. A fucking HOUR LONG telephone interview with my new manager and HR person. Torture. Sitting playing with ma baws, wearing a t-shirt with cheese sauce and ragu and fuck knows what else spilled down the front of it, picking fluff and food morsels out of my beard… and then eating said food morsels… weird set up for an interview. Anyway, that was Tuesday, cunts offered me the job on Friday.

It’s a document production job. I did that as my previous job but with AWFUL fucking shift rotations and a TERRIBLE salary.

I know I’m a bit of a fucking recluse now (I’m like Zarathustra but without the animals or the descending of the mountain, but with all of the Nazi misinterpretation. GOD IS DEAD, YA CUNTS YEEZ!) but this new job is working from home. Working from home sounds good in theory…but… it means I can work. I can’t do my current job from home, so for the past few weeks I’ve just let myself go to seed. It’s fun. Cave man. Find the primeval self, scratch belly button and growl. Thus spoke Zarathustra. In other words, while “normal” cunts are going round the bend with all this social distancing malarkey… I rather enjoy it. I live by myself. I like myself. I think. I’m not a Whitman guy, but “I celebrate myself”. Is that about wanking or self realisation? I can never tell…what’s more self revelatory than self pleasure – mon the onanism! but now my ‘Rona holiday is over, because the new job is working from home anyway! Damn it! I was looking forward to a furloughed Spring… gardening leave without the need to garden.

Anyway… it’s a really good fucking job that pays quite well, doing something I actually quite like doing, and no more commute to work. Literally, “cashback!” – I like that I referenced Nietzsche, Whitman, AND Partridge in one post.

I’m quite excited. I’m looking forward to having a job where I can use my brain a wee bit. I’m a wee bit worried about finding the motivation to actually WORK while sitting in the house with all my wee distractions… at least I can sit at my desk and pick my nose and scratch my baws without worrying if any cunt sees me… except that prick that’s always looking up at the windows while walking his dog… but fuck that guy! Gormless! He’s a long-starer.

Anyway (again)… this is my last day of [not]working from home and tomorrow is my first day at a new job… again.

a salaam alaikum
Namaste
Catch yeez
take it easy.

Oh, Charlie Parker

Oh, Charlie Parker
Slow blow Cool
You Bebop

Warm understanding
Weird time signatures
Ruminations and my glass of wine

Charlie Parker
Your brass noise is midnight and I’m underneath a tree

Charlie Parker
Yer saunter is endemic
And I am Charlie

And You play Summertime
Even my teeth stand to attention
Master of the blowing sadness

Charlie Parker died once
Charlie Parker lives.

Listen Man

Listen Man

I had a good day today.
No one annoyed me.
…Busy as fuck right enough
But the bonny wee trainee solicitor I was liaising with made it alright, man.

And listen, man, I went for lunch, met someone I know from the office…had a wee blether wandering down Bothwell Street in crisp sun December just after rain and wet tarmac reflections of all of the above. December sun, man. It’ll get you every time.

And listen, man, I bumped into my lovely wee pal Lindsey up that manky Sauchiehall Street while on my wander. She hasn’t finished her dissertation yet and I’m sad happy that I never went to Uni.

And listen, man, the auld boy I work with “made good pasta last night”, but that’s the third shite he’s had today.

And listen, man, the auld boy gave me regular updates throughout the day, “fuck sake, son, that’s number 5…bit heavy that wan…”. Regular. The fucking shitting forecast.

And listen, man… it’s Friday and yer no deid yet.

When K met B

Seeing Glasgow through someone else’s eyes, man…

Wandering down through Woodlands, from the park, from the Galleries… she said “you lucky fucker…you live in a beautiful place” – taking photos of tenements!!…and all I had to do was point her in the direction of the things she wanted to see.

We cooked for each other and told secrets. I let her know that she has the same quality my Buw and my Lindsey have – that…I don’t know what that is… empathy and incite and a real clear listening eye…maybe.

It was a great weekend!

Two Beat Generation fans drunk on wine staring into each other’s eyes and telling stories.

She read me Dylan Thomas while I cooked a dinner. 😍

We had whisky on Sunday and watched a black and white film.

I walked her to the train station on Monday morning and we sat together like two soldiers who had shared the same experiences; worn and tired and close.

The Arse End of the Air

The arse end of the air
Bites at the skin unprotected
But smiles still swirl in the red reclining autumn