and the spiritual connection.
or intellectual reflection.
of provocative poems.
all got something to say.
to entertain you.
when we do Tongue Fu.
Scottish people can't rap, they just cannae mate
You'd have to be half daft where I'm coming fae
Weans are more concerned wi getting bevied underage
Summer rain, half baked, chappin' doors and run away
They've got the gold watch, gold teeth, gin and juice
I've got the holey socks, cold feet, missing tooth
No diamonds, no swimming pools
Just an endless list of things that I can never do
No boom box or lino on the ground
More like sport socks and lighters for a pound
They've got the low-ride Cadillac hydraulics
I'm tryin' ae find ma bus fare in ma anorak pocket
Look at: dirty nails, cat's deed, bowl cut
No fresh garms, no fam, no gwop
No buzz, hashtag penniless
Spending this twenty quid on a bevy while contemplating ma empty fridge
– Dave Hook (Stanley Odd)
I came here all rude
American brass, all
trash can, fanny pack,
Where’s the castle?
Then Glasgow rolled itself under my tongue,
a grey marble lolling my mouth open
going to Tescos,
then thistling my speech
wi sleekit lisps,
wee packets a crisps
– Extract from Outwith by Katie Ailes
“Nice dog, innit-pal? I’ll sell her to ye, for a tenner”
I shook off the price and laughed instead
Jogged past his step in the slog of summer
Looked at my trainers, turned my head
He maybe had eight Tennents left, box heating in the sun
I’d popped out for a baguette, that makes me look a cunt
“It’s not that bad” - the pit-bull grinned, with a heavy tongue
“my brother he might be a mess, at least he’s not a runt”
Lead dragging at her feet but she’ll never wander long
“This street’s the fuckin’ bollocks pal, tell ye that for free”
Water bowl in the shade, chasing birds and barking song
“Bites a lot worse when he’s pissed, but all he’s got is me”
– Thirsty Pooch by Sam Small
I keep meeting writers,
artists and musicians
who have given up writing,
painting or music.
And we get wasted,
we smoke and we drink
and talk of wasted talent,
and it always ends
the same way,
with me insisting
that the colours and
the notes and the words
sometimes they just get lost.
I tell them
I couldn’t ever
quit and walk
out on writing.
It’s usually then
they give me that look
always that look –
like one day
I will give up
they look at me
like one day I’ll see how
hard it is to make it work
they look at me
like I don’t get it
like I don’t understand
and I stop talking
and I smoke and drink and
think they never did.
– Don't Feed the Poets by Salena Godden