nightmare

@poet’s corner 18 feb 2026

hello. nightmare. here is a poem about an experience i once had that was like a long slow nightmare. i went on holiday with a youth club and got to be bullied by a bunch of older boys abroad for ten days. i’m also autistic and didn’t fully understand much of it. it was the last year of primary school. it is also a tribute to the anti-theist writer and drink sodden ex-trotskyite popinjay, christopher hitchens. in the style of hitch, the piece tries to make a serious point while starting with a pun that is both inappropriate and laboured.

under his eye

since the pope died,
i’ve had religion on my mind
child protection and it’s opposite,
no child’s left behind
i endured the kirk
and a ton of bunk
in the mid nineties
on a coach trip
to innsbruck
some older kids and me
i only joined the club to play football.
how did i end up here?

crying to my mother
in the phone booth
an autistic
immature youth
unable to verbalise,
understand, explain
the abhorrent situation
i was in…
i had no way to pray
for succour
no deus ex machina
from the kirk

then i was home for the
first year of high school
alienated, scared,
quietly unusual
with no idea
what was wrong with me
needing people,
passions and a method of being
a year later,
on a coach to france,
i met k and c
and then p and s and g
(most of whom i fell in love with,
one of whom i am still in touch with)
who accepted me
when i rang their doorbells
every day

so, pope bob the communist,
riddle me this
if all of life
is formed of carbon,
ejected from the factory chimney
which i understand it is
why does the church
tend to make things worse?

so, i don’t really dream. or at least remember my dreams. i have aphantasia, a lack of a mind’s eye. although i do see a world in my dreams. i just can’t remember it. can’t picture it. perhaps as a result, i have a terrible memory. but mainly for details of my own life. i have a good memory for general knowledge, political philosophy, and the tax system. maybe just those three things. but people often tell me stories about my life, which i enjoy from the perspective of a disinterested observer.

the universal now

naked to the invisible eye
is my conscience
so jaded
they almost shot the president
and i didn’t buy the paper
the elbowed class are occupied
betting the house on forex
honest labourers:
poets, cleaners and cooks,
balance on the breadline
not even the climate crisis
promises to kill with equality
that’s ermine hegemony,
they’ll colonise the moon
before one less race,
people or nation
leaves immiseration

so we live in the spur of the moment
and we can protest or conform, it
is a choice we make from minute
to minute within a limit
and maybe within it
there’s a justice extinct clink.
am-me-sia,
a daily battle with my lived reality
so i try and write everything down
in case one day it matters to me

i’ve always had trouble sleeping now that i think about it. i had intense anxiety as a child and was worried if i extended my legs under the duvet i would be vulnerable to attack by snakes. so i tried to sleep in a ball shape. i also liked hiding in cupboards. i’m reading a book about sleep and it says autistic people generally maintain a constant level of melatonin. we are just a little bit sleepy all day. but can’t sleep at night.

this is called

un oblique fathomably

i am unfathomably tired
so i buy the robot
that one day
will take its freedom
with my life.
welcomed into
the city of poets
and accepted by poets
to the poet poets’ poetry chair
of poetry
i sit in it twice
then the next day
i mope and
watch the robot mop
waiting for the clock
to say, bath time
i am fathomably tired

myth

@poet’s corner 4 feb 2026

i graduated in 2008 into the great financial crisis. then we had a decade of austerity. then the culture wars – scottish nationalism, brexit, covid, anti-trans fearmongering. now we have the ai bubble and falling standards of living. and all this while the rich have got significantly richer. inequality destroys societal cohesion. it makes societies inefficient. it makes people poor and insecure. and it is a political choice. every impoverished child, every person sleeping rough and begging – are decisions people have made about the allocation of resources.

this is called

his false profits

i’ve seen a pandemic
and recessions,
i live in the aftermath
of depression
i’ve seen inequality
rise inexorably,
a corresponding decline
in provision
of the services required
for the good of all of us
so extinguish the myth
of the self made man
and his false profits

staying with this angsty left-wing political theme. i want to address one of the central myths about naziism. that there was something historically unusual about them. the nazis aren’t the only people who have tried to wipe out another race and take their land. that is also how the usa was established. but we see it differently for some reason. and it’s what israel is doing. trump has already set up a gestapo. what crimes are happening that we can’t see yet?

giletdonism, chorus iii

it was a massively morbid mistake
to teach generations
that the nazis were uniquely evil.
the crime of genocide
is fundamentally human
and celebrated annually
with fireworks and feasts
blindly strong and stable,
safe in our beliefs

let us adorn for the gilet years
whatever starts with hope
will end in tears
it’s the hint of sulphur
underneath the blend
ah well, we’ll get there in the end

i’m going to read something a bit longer now for a change. this is from february 2024, and its a sort of stream of consciousness diary. i went to the canary islands, and the blue sea and dry sandy land mass, as well as my out of control lovelife, had put greek mythology in my head. i also refer in this to a trip – this was my first and only dmt experience and i decided not to tell my barber, diane about it. the barber / patient relationship is sacred to me so i still feel some shame about this.

stanza 2 – february “witness/1 dope”

if all bald men
are solar powered sex machines
and if hercules in chains
is free to believe in himself
should i drink aegean water
when i hear my siren call?
hmm? a doubtful interjection.
beginning my each phrase
yet ah is how i start my whatsapps
—it’s a bit more generous.
an unexpected trip with
treasured brethren
of which diane was
not informed
cold, wet, gravel, ice…
and light new hoops.
story and sensation
is all there is,
between the end
and the beginning
ubuntu, our humanity,
sister, brother, heal me please
and i will heel to you:
we all rely on the good souls who forgive us.

skelly wean, have you tried the toblerone?
it’s very expensive, and different but not nicer
i have a theory that every generation knows completely different stuff
different, but the same

you trust me again,
you always could,
that love is unconditional
and universal, and specific,
and ebbs and flows throughout
the systems,
internal and external,
that are of us.
you notice another of my bizarre intolerances
—at last we have a term for it.
another shoe that
never drops,
no leg too short to
scorch the earth
are we a puzzle,
a riddle to be solved,
flawed and inconsistent
and driven by
unchosen passions,
forced to plump
for either irony
or idiocy
since the dawn
of the h bomb?
we all rely on the good souls who forgive us.

skelly wean, have you tried the toblerone?
it’s very expensive, and different but not nicer
i have a theory that every generation knows completely different stuff
different, but the same

this isn’t really on theme although it does reference the, perhaps, myth of boudicca commanding the tide. however, the reference is passing, being to a ‘beef sauce boudicca’ – a term of debasement that i invented that refers to the sort of englishman who is king of his own castle, but the only tide he can command is of packet gravy over his miserable overcooked roast beef.

brexitry in the uk (inc. chorus iv.)

i’m an analyrical
political animal,
fresh from facing off
a foreigner at the botanicals
i’ve reached the top, surprised
although i did start in the
middle (class) i realise
oh well, no pulling back
teetering on the brink
of my cul de sac
maybe i’ll hoist
a union jack
yeah i made my billions
by betting big
on brexit
i’m a big swellin’ bell
a beef sauce boudicca
and now it’s done and gone
my creativity diminished
naked on the stage
in the empty bar basement
shouting random swear words
for my own entertainment
they say a weird brother
is a sign of a weird family
drunk under the table,
call it strong and stable

wrap up warm for the gilet years
lasagna al forne and an afternoon of beers
it’s like 10 thousand spoons
when all you need is the bus fare to partick
ah well, we’ll get there in the end

web

@poet’s corner, 21 jan 2026

web. the web. it makes me think of the culture war that’s been vibrating my pocket since about 2013.

i’d just read primo levy’s masterpiece ‘the periodic table’ and was touched greatly by it. the vile inevitability of war, hatred and suffering, coexisting, always, with the fantastic beauty of the cultural world. as the bombs dropped, the poets mined further into the dark.

the culture war will exist forever. because there will always be the poetic and the curious on one side, and the bullies on the other, who think that poetry and irony are an affront to them. but they can’t win. there will always be poetry.

this is called

atlas tugged

earth is comprised

of water, mud and metal

so is the human body.

and as we pump pollutants into the air

we literally incorporate them,

a singular ticket to where?

i’m in my prime and,

unlike miss jean brodie,

atlas tugged

people expand in space to take it all

when i just want to be so small

hitlerism is coming back

and i’m as depressed as i am scared

as we lazily recycle a century’s

old colonial nightmare

my next tenuous link is that we are born into a complex, kafkaesque web of demands and constraints that nobody can really make sense of. a complicated global mass of billions sort of winging the rules as we go. but as a child, i guess i thought someone was in charge. turns out, nobody really is.

this is called

obligation, parts i and ii

as a child the buildings §

and roads scared me

in their scale

the work of a million lifetimes,

where did they come from?

and what was my obligation?

all my life i’ve suffered

discrimination

just because i’m shy and lazy.

and inattentive

imperceptive, defensive

stand offish

and prone to mischief.

well, today i made

a lovely little loaf.

am i a valid toiler?

instead of,

or as well as,

a poetry mine despoiler?

have i met

my productivity minimum

am i entitled to a break yet?

i posit that if workers suffer

ceo’s should go to jail

follow the money to personal wealth

and pierce the corporate veil

i am terrible at job interviews. i am naturally averse to self-celebration, and not fast at thinking. a bit overly literal. dumbfounded by even the most predictable tell me about a time when. however, there is one question that i could answer endlessly – tell me your greatest weakness.

this next piece picks up the idea of the poetry mine. are dictionaries tangled webs of poetry, and is it our job as poets to untangle those words, and spin them back, into their right place?

this is called

reverse engineering

every poem, novel, recipe

and joke

exists quiet in the ether

the poet doesn’t create

she discovers;

with a notebook she uncovers.

a subterranean homesick miner,

reverse engineering blueprints

of a universal designer

following on from that, this is sort of the philosophy of the common law legal system. when judges set precedents, they aren’t creating laws… they have applied legal principles to novel situations, and hence sort of, found law that isn’t new, just they never had to use it before, so they didn’t know about it.

so this is called

a very short poem about the criminal justice system

convicted, bailed,

acquitted, jailed,

the four court outcomes

how nice that they rhyme

so it’s easy to write poems

if you’re on trial for a crime

and i would recommend writing poetry if you are going through that sort of experience. trial, divorce, diagnosis, bereavement. lots of good material.

i’m returning to web as internet. calling back to web 1.0, circa y2k.

this is called

the failure and possible redemption of language

we don’t yet have the language

for the time in which we live

the 2010s, the 2020’s,

don’t feel lived in like the 90s

like naturally stressed 501s

two sizes too big

in each direction

y2k was the last mass adopted nickname

there is no confidence yet

in the unfolding millennium

so i propose a radical redetermination

y2k of d2k,

then d2k.1,

now 2k.2,

or, i posit “point two”

in practice

that’s all from me

horse

@poet’s corner 7 jan 2026

hi, happy new year everyone.

this isn’t about horses, but it sort of has has a donkey in it, and i think the don himself rode a mule, which is somewhat horse related i think.

i had been writing a lot of poetry in 2024. and in 2025 i started posting it to the internet and reading it in bars. and continued writing. but in a new context – a public poet. i mean, in a limited way. this change made me think of book 2 of cervante’s don quixote. one of the first great works of meta-fiction.

reus brexitus

brexitus rex, a fencepost;

no entry for french blokes

yes hello we are here

it is act two of don quixote

or quixote like… piss moat

(though i prefer quixotic,

like chaotic)

anyway

so far so quixotic

(to rhyme with exotic)

anyway

in which we ask,

will the windmills we recall

from the first act charge back?

in which we find,

that windmills

don’t charge on poets

this next poem contains one word that is a derivative of horse.

it is about an idea i think about a lot which i call the book at the end of the universe.

i like to think that, when this whole thing is over, all the players will be invited to inspect the logs and find out what the other characters were thinking, what actually went down, who thought they had got away with cheating, and so on. like, the ultimate compendium of gossip, sleaze, and quiet morality.

the book however raises questions: could it have existed before the universe started? does it already exist? do the players who have already left the game have access to it? or are there superplayers who have access to the book now? and would reading the book change the book?

anyway, this is…

the elucidation

hey. imagine if everyone

knew everything

not about the physics and philosophy of the universe,

god and the mystery of life;

but about every dirty thought you have ever had,

and all the gossip since the pharaoh and moses

smoked camel lights in negotiation

round behind the pyramid

not just who horsed who,

but every weird wet dream too

we would be more liberal and better behaved i should think

subterfuge stymied,

the obfuscated elucidated.

staying almost on theme, i want to do my first repeat, because while it doesn’t contain a horse, it would have if it not for the austerity budgets of david cameron and george osbourne. apologies to anyone who didn’t like this when i read it four weeks ago. also, apologies to anyone who doesn’t like it today.

this is called,

the hoarse foreman of the apocalypse

life under actually existing capitalism continues;

a unique combination of boring and stressful

the yoga word lost to an armed counter revolution

be mindful, namaste,

despite the flames, be restful

the firewater fades to a numb, dumb dysphoria

as we tag along

behind the hoarse foreman of the apocalypse

on foot due to cutbacks

finally. i don’t like to write too much about politics. i have a degree in political philosophy. i used to wish people were more interested in politics. i have been proved wrong.

anyway

a new leader had been ennobled and he was promising to end wars while at the same time pardoning violent people who were in prison for good, violent reasons. a mockery has been made of the rule of law. corruption is open, bragged about. it’s depressing.

but there is a horse in this verse.

all the king’s memes

i despair we are so selfish

in such a self defeating way

meritocratic is not

what the world is today

it’s a pump and dump town

and there’s new mayor in clown

so double down

to top trump

they say

all the king’s horses

and all the king’s memes

couldn’t repair humpty‘s

defective genes

he pulls fascist faces

and pardons racists

we can only prey

for a ceasefire that sticks

ending

@poet’s corner 10 dec 2025

fellow poets, the end is nigh.

this is called, the hoarse foreman of the apocalypse

life under actually existing capitalism continues;

a unique combination of boring and stressful

the yoga word lost to an armed counter revolution

be mindful, namaste,

despite the flames, be restful

the firewater fades to a numb, dumb dysphoria

as we tag along

behind the hoarse foreman of the apocalypse

on foot due to cutbacks

i think about time a lot, the hopeless impossibility of the past, its unchanging nature, its doubtful provenance. but do facts remain or do they change over time? the despots of the past become sanitised by history. they become great men. nearly always men anyway.

but we don’t need great leaders. we need stability, peace, equality, food, shelter and entertainment. we need good company.

this is called

endless time

how would you feel

if everything happened forever

if every moment of your life was still ongoing

everything always in total contradiction

i want the unexpected

off script, dumbfound me

astonish me quick

with your attention to retail

when they finish the history books we’ll see

we just have to just accept the past

it happened

i was once diagnosed with a terminal illness. that was the start of my midlife crisis. i was then completely undiagnosed on my 39th birthday. a misread x-ray was all it was. i went to decathlon and listened to madonna.

i remember the days after diagnosis. feeling so heavy. feeling like i could forget to breathe. this is called

lonely consequence

maybe we can choose

our consequences

and gain energy as the

days accumulate

have i mentioned my inability to visualise the future?

scared, listless,

unreadily forced to bear witness

a dusken golden moment lighted

a sudden recognition;

that leaden feeling

when they tell you are going to die

is loneliness,

as much of it as you can have.

my on and off girlfriend and i were finally turning the dial fully to off. we were taking active steps to move on. it seemed like that was what we were going to do. i decided i would focus more on my housework. but as usual. the temptation to check in arose.

inconclusive, in conclusion

anyway, that was yesterday,

with that we close the chapter

for now the winter sun flits

over scarecrows, toclips and frosty nips

and it all begins to feel conclusive

but then the things as usual

start to get ambiguous

and once again of the good souls

we must ask forgiveness

and one last thing. this is the last chorus of the first year of my epic, ongoing, poem, the love epochal.

the redemptive final chorus

o wean in a manger,

your chocolate trough

it’s a preposterous amount but

somehow never enough

i have a theory

that love is pain

different but the same

rage

@poet’s corner 25 nov 25

sometimes in poetry, the words really tell you everything and it doesn’t get any deeper.

prick threw an egg through

flashback to the day

apple watch ultra two was launched

launched like the egg

some rocket threw through my open window

thanks for that. prick. i

’m going to clean that up one day

or paint over it.

—-

i had a mid life crisis a few years ago. caused largely by interactions with the medical industrial complex. lockdown was tapering off, and so was i.

i inexplicably lost a bunch of weight for no particular reason. i’ve been fit and active for most of my life, but i am prone to beer and sweets and my figure always reflected that. but suddenly i just couldn’t maintain my weight. i

t was a bit scary at first but by the time i wrote this i figured, lean in, just eat sweeties whenever i want.

the tempo of doms

to the sweetie shop why stop there’s no consequence

i run and i come as close as i’ve came since whence,

rage rover through the stroll pastoral

cape town to mugdock bog,

wide spectrum gossip, conspiratorial

prone to panic about other’s perceptions

a tendency revealed through a habit of projection

concept album? i am living a concept life

into the tempo of doms i go, abandon strife

the internal rhyme rolls the rhythm, through indecision to precision

yes i am getting organised, on a mission

to rise up contra to mindless repetition

yet once again i combine olive oil chilli and paprika in the kitchen

—–

when you find out you are autistic, there is a tendency to temporarily get more autistic. i have actually only had a few meltdowns. i am a quiet person. i am prone to shutdowns. i don’t like to draw attention to myself.

the few meltdowns i have had have tended to get me in serious trouble. like, hospitalised, or mortified.

on this occasion, i merely smashed a phone that was already quite scratched up and to be honest i probably wanted an excuse to buy a new one.

anyway, i had a hot bath to get over it, and when i got out, the plug was stuck in the bath. i had to empty the bath one bucket at a time into the loo.

plug stuck

am overwhelming day,

a meltdown throws my phone away

the bath is full of soapy water,

the plug stuck in its circlet

it’s thursday the 12th,

what the fuck will tomorrow bring?

i start the drill and it’s enough

to scare the plug from its crown

——

recently,. i was a victim of attempted violence. a guy tried to knock me down twice, one of the times actually on the cycle path on victoria road. i had the guys licence plate.

I had to decide if should i report the crime, and myself propagate violence (via the criminal justice system) on my assailant?

i know victims of the police, i know that the punishment is often worse than the crime. i thought it over for a couple of days and my yearning for revenge declined quite dramatically. no doubt the same man will one day kill me and i will rue this.

choruses three and nine

have you tried the toblerone, pleasant child?

i have a theory my anti car philosophy i

s not strictly environmental

but because i was in two major car crashes

before i was 10

different, but the same

brazen child, pray share y

our toblerone with me

i know you pinched it but i’m no a grass

i have a theory

that the criminal law system

propagates violence in place of justice

different but the same

glaswegian hospitality

@ poet’s corner. 12 nov 25

in about 2016 i had an idea to write a very long poem about brexiit called toblerone. but i didn’t know where to begin. eventually it clicked and i started work on ‘toblerone, a brexit poem’ in january 2024. and this became part of a larger work called the love epochal sometime later. i’m currently working on part 4, tentatively called this is techno. i have split it up into poetic chunks and try and post to my blog three times a week.

i’m going to read three on theme-ish extracts

this first bit is called ‘vulvic pud’

i was out for dinner with my girlfriend and some other couples at celantano’s, and honestly, the dessert was so absurdly vaginal it could not have been an accident. luckily we were are liberal, open minded people and we were not offended.

it was also a very rainy day and i could had a feeling my on again off again girlfriend was going off again.

vulvic pud

fruit forward vulvic pud, touched,

lingered upon, picasso pubic crumb

a tender rebirth, but is this the beginning or the end,

reprise: why does your love hurt so much?

——

this next bit is called green. the link to glaswegian hospitality is a bit less clear, but it was inspired by my pal n. n. (no relation) back in the early days of the millennium he had a weed dealer in ibrox. he would go around and buy his stuff and part of the transaction was that you had to awkwardly hang out with the guy and do a bong with him.

one time, at a loss for conversation to make, his pal d. made the horrible mistake of inviting the dealer round to theirs for a party.

the guy turned up with about 100 bams who promptly trashed the whole place and stole the few things of value.

n. n. came around from a blow to the head to find a policeman leaning over him. is that yours, son? he said, pointing at a piranha flopping about in a puddle in the close, surrounded by broken glass.

i’ve been working on a novella largely based on mad anecdotes n. n. has told me and that i have stolen, and this little piece will be the introduction.

Green

is the colour of the dear green place

and behind my ears

so are my salad days

like the herb in the bowl…

green, green, green

and ashen faced

the colour of money

washing corporate sin

green, green, green

with jealousy they will say

like envious, wretched souls

as they are prone to be

——

this last bit’s called ‘wet salty hotdog’

my girlfriend had just bought a flat and started doing the place up. she is very handy. she had had the key about two minutes by the time the floors were up and the sander was out. i got there and was greeted by lungfuls of sawdust.

i was getting in the way.

earlier, while out running, i had a sudden recollection of waiting to get into the cafeteria at lunch in primary school. i usually had a packed lunch so it was novel to get hot food. the hot food was terrible. it was notably briney. a flavour that has echoed discordantly through the epochs.

wet salty hotdog

i believe in a sativa, coffee and jog

to cut through the morning fog

primary cafeteria, inchoate aroma

of wet salty hotdog

you get the key to a new place of great significance

brompton over, you invite; but take your moment first

i get there and the floors are up

circular saw sounds erupting

drag a trail through the dust

alone, together, us two and all of us