God, I watched God last night

god it was good

God I just knew, the song, that song was for me

Then I noticed you

your glinting gleaming beaming smile

did a wiggle giggle googly as it bounced towards me

completely knocking me for six

I caught it and instantly fell in love

with you and it

it’s safely tucked away in your balmy box

gently sleeping amidst the other memories

Beautiful blond sun bleached curly locks dwell alongside your first tooth

silly songs sing to me then rock me sleepily into dreamland

pets snatch passing pictures

I  still laugh at your joke, yes, the one about the fart

Your dangly dolls, your baby gang

lay aspread across your bed

sheathed in shawls

a shrouded veil of yesteryear

For my daughter Lorraine

Da da zat a doo da

DD da DD a doo da

Da da whit yi dayin da

A dado da

Puttin up a dado da

DD da DD done a dodo da

Oan a dado da

Aw ma aw naw ma

DD deed da Oan a dado da Is a DoDo da

Ta ta DD a doo ta ta

Wednesday evening May 14th, well therr ah wiz sittin dayin’ mah usual blog oan the weekly goings on at Maryhill Writers Group. Ah’ll gie a big menchie tay Corrina ah says, aboot ur poem Picnic, well a’hd nay sooner goat the ole doon oan tadpole when mah screen flickered, fukkin Bill Gates ah says ur that cunt fay Google, well ah didn’y evin get ti close the brackits next ah nose whoosh ahm in the shonzaleezeh, therr am ur sittin therr thinkin fucksake man thats ah buzz, ahm in France innen a 4 u know it ahm back therr sittin in front of my computer typing away as if nuthins happind, ah thoat nay merr aboot it roat a wee bit merr then I went to bed, hivvah nice sleep humpty, get sum broon paper, see if that’ull help yeh.

Thursday morning, middle ah May. Yes! but on the other hand I may not. ah sits down to  the usual cardboard shite fur mah brekfist alang way the obligatory bit of  fruit pops a kupplah pills in ahm aff oot dressed like Nanook of the north, well ahm gawn tay Springburn int ah.Walks to the bus stoap  in Garrioch Rd jumps a number 89, urr is it a 90, ah doant know  bit it’s wanny the 2, so I have ah wee seat, makes a mentul note tay take aff the rucksack before ah sit doon next time, fukkin numpty heed ah says tay mahsell, need to stop doing that though, they might lock me up again, then ah hears thum, well I overhear sum smart arses oan the bus mutturn aboot me ‘n’ Deputy Dawg, ur wiz it mutley, mmm, it least ah think ah did, not one to be paranoid and awe that, bit wit the fukkur they laffin it. Then as I near my stop, ah gets up to go aff, they gets up to go aff, ah sits doon, they sits doon, ahm no getting aff hear ah thinks it’s a bit desertid, jots doon a reminder to write a letter to Mr Martin, but which one ah thinks, the son or the father, daddy or chip, and then they pass me, fukkin big grins fay ear to ear, ur wiz it chib marks, funny fukkurs but not haha, they were dodgy lookin kunts any weigh, sorry way, izzat spelt right och itsahwurdintit.

Typing tip: – SEE IF U DAY THIS – when u ment to day this – see if u day this – jist highlight SEE IF U DAY THIS and press shift plus the f3 key, and as if by magic uppercase becomes lowercase, continue to press f3 whilst holding down shift and watch it change.

Where wiz ah, aye ah’ll continue on the bus, get off around the Tollbooth and walk towards the high court and Glasgow Green ah’ll get sum good photos therr. Walking along the riverside I notices this guy sleeping against a tree what ah belter of a hat is that ah thoat, ah’ll need to get wan o thame ah says to myself, awe awe, naw, naw ah didn’y, honest ah wizny, ah wiz talking to my mate, bit he just wasn’t there at the time, fucksake zat wurse ah dunno. He reminded me of a toby jug, an en when ahm passing this toby jug mug guy in the tricolah hat ah faws doon ah gigantic big hole in rah grun an ends up in France again, only this time ahm in the Museum D Orsay, ziss a virtual trip, ur izzit fur real ahm thinkin, well ah soon goat the answer tay that when they put me in the cherr, aw tied up in that.

“Miseur your writting group these Marryhooll Writters, the pom PICNIC eet ees not aloud” he says,

Fuck sake ah thoat, wit, urufurr reel, man ah thoat this izzny happnin, no tay me.”Whittur yi oan aboot.”

“The pom insults us. It makes fun of the French.” He was a small man five ft two or so, nifty dresser though, a wee musache to go with the wee shoes and his wee heed, he was starting to boil I could see him getting more and more angry, then she appears from out of the blue room and she’s all tiedup is well.

“Fuck sake Corinna whits happnin?”

An enn he pipes up, “zee tadpole will have to go, or she is for the chop.” pulls ees hawn across his neck, “coot,”  then eh points tay madum gilloteen, fucksake man ameen cummoan, wit the fukkin top o the mornins happnin here.

“Well that’s it, it’s up to you folks, we’ll let the nation decide, press the blue button on your interactive remote control to keep the verse intact, or the red button and have Corinna eternally looking for her napper.”

Thursday, 15 May 2008 @ 5:35:15 AM 

Billi

After taking a series of photographs of The Weeping Ash some pigeons and the now closed Botanic Gardens Station in Glasgow’s Botanical Gardens I had a memory of the dancehall and cafe that used to be there and wrote the weeping tree series.

The Weeping Tree

wept

watching

wicked

wolves

Innocence slept

neath the weeping tree

bound by roots

tied fast in the past

Wicked wolves watched

Innocence sleep

creep creep creep

Innocence creeps

up roots to the heart

safe in the pith

of the weeping tree

Twittering tweets float

above a misty street

below the dungeon master sings

Innocence listens and weeps

Dungeon Master

prison sir man

sugar daddy singing to the beat

one lump or two sir

beat me sir

yes sir you sir, yes sir you sir

boogie on down to the underground

Underground Station

bird perch branch line

padlocked gates sing wind chime songs

enroot to the dance of the silver slipper

Escape Prism

liquid laser light

dull mirror men

creepy creeps in creepy shoes

Skunks slink

dodgy dogs dance dungeon master dances

silvery slippers on horny feet

reflecting Innocence

bound on the ground

by the fallen branch of the weeping tree

Innocence weeps

a howling wailing banshee cry

birds twitch then fly and park by the bench

Innocence sings

tree tree fetch me, bring me to your bosom

sweep me up sooth my pain

Help me

Help me

Help me help the other brother pain

tighter tighter till

the weeping tree weeps

birds watch

roots shoot

wolves wail howling wails

twilight twinkled

Innocence smiled

tree wink sleep

Billi

24/05/2007 05:30:10

capturing clouds,

captured dreams scream in darkened rooms,

lights stream through prisms reflected on the prison walls,

walls wail,

wails sail above the floors,

 a mother dies,

again and again amid the unheard cries,

cry’s creep,

across the floor before tiptoeing upstairs,

while listening ears fear the return,

a rerun of yesterday,

tomorrows nightmare awaits,

at the door he stood, ready to awaken us.

Locked up for 24 years by dad

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