love is a fridge full of vegetables

RobDavidson:

My love to you, my love. x

Originally posted on Inner Focus:

love is bread, broken and torn at 3 am

i thought i knew what Love was. but i was wrong.
so wrong…

and then it hit me.

and it hit me hard.

Love is a shirt, a soiled sweater or a pair of socks.
anything that evokes that feeling
when you inhale the lingering scent of moments before.
moments that transcend the space/time continuum,
where you find yourself whisked back into their arms,
only to awaken hours later
in a pile of dirty laundry.

Love is a little notepad.
a diary,
leather-bound and bejewelled.
scribbles and musings. words.
words that will be given when full.
words that hold more than mere thought.
words that hold emotion, raw.
re-read, re-lived.
words that breathe, and bleed-
tattooed into the heart, mind and soul.

Love is a hard-drive full of photographs,
like the heart, a hard-drive full of memories.
photographs of that face.
that face that you long to hold,
and kiss.

View original 453 more words

A Scottish Bus Blog

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X58 from Kirkcaldy to Leven
Expected time of arrival at bus stop – 18:23
Actual time of arrival at bus stop- 18:40

A rattling, vibrating, roaring, precarious, slightly dank and mildly smelling of human feces, stagecoach took me from A to B.

I worried for my own life, and the life of other road users, on several occasions.

Twenty minutes of my life in someone else’s hands, and this guy was in a hurry, after running late.

The bus was fairly empty. A few reticent passengers here and there and only one mong clutching a, plain but mysterious, blue plastic bag for dear life. What is in there, i wonder? As i look down at his feet and see only socks, i conclude it must be his shoes in the bag. Of course.

Despairingly gazing out of the window at the same old streets full of the same old people. The daily grind and strife. Survival, ya cunt.

Still, noticed quite a few YES posters/stickers in windows and on cars. Even graffiti on a wall. YES (in blue), vote (in white), and another YES (in blue). Not a single…the other ones…y’know…those guys? (The evil/ignorant ones).

Time to daydream and reflect. The age old battle of good versus evil. Will hope triumph over fear? Will the people triumph over corporate insanity? The haze in the sky and the poison in our food, creating new illnesses you’ve never even heard of. Morgellan’s disease. Amyotrophic lateral sclerosis. Grave’s disease. To name but a few. Time to reflect on loved ones. The coming weekend with my family. My mother. My son. My lover. She sees something in me that i never have. She shows such kindness and love and gives me support, even on my darker days. My thoughts turn to the coming circus performance i have stumbled into. Here’s forty uninterrupted minutes of my life presented in a peculiar, but melodic, way. And this is entertainment?

And now i watch, a once novel sight, but now a familiar tip of the hat to a future without dependence on oil, as an enormous turbine spins relentlessly against a gloomy tarnished early evening sky. It looks haunting and causes me to shiver.

Almost there now and i am out of my seat. I stagger to the front of the bus as the driver enters the station. He is still in a hurry and the terminal is only twenty meters away. Is he going to stop? Is he going to just smash into the waiting room and toilet area? Ach, i’ll just hold on tight and hope he does. Nope, he screeches to a halt. Do i say thanks as i get off the bus? I mean, he is a maniac that has been mistakenly employed by the bus company after all?

‘Cheers buddy’.

He thanks me too. Presumably for getting off the bus and out of his crabbit face.

Still a ten minute walk to go. It’s not summer anymore either.

Up the high street. Passed the local bars and the usual ostricised piss-heads sucking hard on cancer and blowing it out into the air. There you go world, fuck you. Safe in twos, they re-affirm their addiction.The nicotine override on rational thought.

Up the road. Keep going. Avoid the embodiment of the stereotypical degenerate chav with trusty side-kick; a wee, but stocky none the less, staffy. Braw dog. I’m not crossing the street on it’s behalf. Still, by the look of the guy, one has to question his ability to teach the dog some manners. Better safe than sharp canines and powerful locked jaws.

Breathe in some more carbon monoxide. Twenty is plenty, asshole. Mind the dog shit.

There’s my door.

Get in, get in, lock the door. Lock the insanity out and the insanity in. Phew.

And for fuck sake, take the car next time.

A madman lives downstairs.

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“time” he blurts, rising unsteadily up from his chair and onto his feet. he is deeply drunk and reeks of an extensive three day binge. naked, bar a pair of Bermuda shorts, gorilla like in shape and posture, and hairy like an aged silver-back, his thick silvery grey hair standing on end as if he’d stuck a fork into an electrical socket, with wiry ‘mad professor’ eyebrows to match; he looks at me with piercing eyes that could penetrate right through me, and often unnerve me.

“time” he repeats, a six decade in the making revelation. white froth has formed in the corners of his mouth. a gelatinous red blob of strawberry jam clings to his chin.

“yer time is aw you’ve got” he informs me. he clutches a glass of Italian red in his hand and a John Lennon and the plastic Ono band LP is playing on his record player.

his eyes seem stricken with confusion as his life fleets in his mind like an introspective projection of events and dreams. the line between them has all but disappeared. a recall mechanism damaged beyond repair.

his expression changes as he recalls another revelation. an anguished darker expression emerges.

“aw those years layin’ brick”

his eyes glisten with rage.

“ye knock yer pan in fir yer family…and fir whit?” he says scornfully regarding his estranged wife and grown children. “tae think o the time i wasted”

he seems to disappear into a daydream. half lost in his thoughts and half lost in his music; he has spontaneous outbursts of joy, singing and dancing. after a while he is out of breath and returns to his seat. now looking vacantly disturbed, he gazes out his window.

he’d lived hard. worked hard. played hard. partied hard. and lost hard.

but he had regained a new life. or so he, and we, his loved ones, neighbours and friends, had thought. a post traumatic stress had been creeping up on him for a long time. a wild youth. construction sites. his marriage breakdown. losing his family. a battle with alcohol addiction. violence. his parents dying. regrets. a lifetime of shell shock finally manifesting. in the form of a breakdown.

but that was last week. time, like life, moves on.

they sectioned him. a joint decision from his partner and his family. for his own protection? for ours?

he lost his mind, so they took his time.

his time is now spent in a ward in an institutionally condoned, drug induced chemical trance, in the company of other strange and disturbed, and sometimes violent, people. he complains of his heart breaking as he witnesses such pain in his fellow loonies.

he can’t play his records. the new soundtrack to his life is that of doctors and nurses talking to him like an invalid. like a child. like he’s not even there. and incoherent babbling and wailing of the other patients; and occasionally some shouting and screaming.

he can’t enjoy a glass of wine. alcohol doesn’t mix well with his anti-psychotics.

he can’t take an unsupervised walk in the gardens to enjoy the simple pleasure of sun on his face and some peace and privacy.

he’s bored silly.

his family and friends visit. but they are soon watching the clock, even leaving early sometimes, or so his partner updates me.

it’s uncertain if he will ‘recover’.

but recover from what exactly? the culmination of the strife and pain of his life? his time?

what do we do with our rubbish? we put it in the rubbish bin. other people deal with it. out of sight, out of mind.

what do we do with our loonies? we put them in the loony bin.

how can all the time of his life lead to this?

time, as he had once, sanely and correctly, insisted to me, is indeed precious.

and life, like a man’s mind, is indeed delicate.

Freshly dePressed…but ultimately hopeful.

devil_cameron

On Independence for Scotland – the question asked was – why do people believe the words of those who would ask you to vote no, and not their friends and family who advise a yes vote?

i couldnt help but ‘go off on one’.

well, its because they are duped. brainwashed. down-trodden. fearful. ignorant. selfish. misguided. blinkered. innocent. naive. pig headed.

or…sadistic?

maybe they like the god awful things that are happening to vulnerable people in this country in the hands of short sighted criminal businessmen in westminster?

maybe they like being shat on from fraudulent elitist bankers and tax dodging corporations while the poor queue at foodbanks to feed their families?

maybe they take delight in paying for an unoccupied room that happens to be a child’s room.

maybe they get goosebumps at the idea of weapons of mass destruction right on their doorstep? they might like the idea of complete obliteration?

maybe they enjoy being lied to? maybe they treat it like a drinking game? every time a politician in westminster is caught lying, take a shot. no wonder we are an alcoholic nation.

perhaps they swoon over a health service falling into the hands of top bidder private companies? if you cant pay for treatment, die.

perhaps they like that feeling of joy when our unelected government arms the world and engages in illegal wars? they might hate peace, who knows?

maybe they get a buzz by being rebellious? they get a kick out of going against the grain? a real rebel (without a cause)?

maybe they revel in the fact that despite being an extremely rich country, austerity policies from westminster are putting more scottish children into poverty and debt!?

they might love to hate to love that wanker, cameron? they might wank off to him as he supports the israeli government’s atrocities. they might shoot jets of oily rancid jism over their screens when cameron tells scotland that we are not bright and brave enough to determine our own destiny? they might orgasm and scream into the night as cameron and the rest of the destructive tyrannical regimes, families, cartels, religious institutions, corporations insanely reek havoc in the world for power and land and money? maybe they like to be placated, and punished, cameron in a pvc devil suit, the ultimate dominatrix?

they might like to feel too afraid to hope? to hope for and shape a better country. to lead by example. to send a message to our owners, we will use our democratic might to demand a better scotland and a fairer, peaceful world.

or maybe they are right? and if that is indeed the case, i will thank them for saving us wretched scottish fools from annihilation. and maybe i should just get a fucking job or go back to where ever i came from, accept defeat and accept the inevitable decline of the general standard of living, oh, and id better stop being a scottish fascist. us fascist types care too much about the future of scottish people and, indeed, all people. but from now on it’s ‘no thanks’ to that. its im alright (union) jack thus far and long may it continue. the good old ‘united kingdom’.

only time will tell. but for me, personally, the debate is over. im not listening to salmond. im not listening to cameron. im certainly not listening to the bbc. im listening to my heart. to my intuition. to my family and friends who all feel that way too. a new community is emerging in scotland. i choose that.

i choose hope over fear.

i choose YES.

roll on the 19th of september.

(just kidding. the 18th, obviously!)

keep_calm_and_vote_yes_scottish_independence_sticker-rdf91a68537c9400d8288c2b0dca53d51_v9w05_8byvr_512

as Baudelaire suggests

RobDavidson:

Rather lovely. x

Originally posted on Inner Focus:

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amid the turmoil
of a broken world,
i seek beauty
in the mundane.
it offers comfort
and solace,
like the sea
that strokes my doorstep
and wipes clean the grime
of this murky world.
an eight day old baby,
fresh
from her young mama’s womb;
my own mama’s hands,
yielding,
her story etched on her paling palms;
a simple man,
carefree,
laughing at the rain;
a hungry fox,
solitary,
in an empty car park;
a snail,
clinging,
to my sideview mirror
as i drive on the motorway;
the words ‘i love you’
from the lips and fingertips
of the one.
all this beauty-
i drink it in,
intoxicated,
as Baudelaire suggests.
i drink it in
to forget
the dark clouds
of the festering storms
that enshroud this world.
my sorrows
are learning to swim.
what is hope
if not this..?

(c) Kat McDonald 2014

PS- the snail was still stuck…

View original 10 more words

The Great Insanity

Third, forth, fifth hand preconceptions over actual experience
Chinese toys for wealthy children
Pinkies and spared no expense
Truly oblivious, you are going through the motions of your parents’ examples
Gadgets and safe distractions and pig headed self satisfactions
Repressed adolescents playing the games
For their own gains, for their own sakes
Taking affirmation, learning from your friends’ mistakes
Don’t rain on my parade – Don’t rain on my parade
Or i’ll stamp onto your face
I’ll stamp onto your head
I’m looking for any excuse to vent
Just give me a push, oh give me a push
I’ve been drinking all night
All week uptight
I’m ready for sex or ready to fight

Don’t rain on my parade

Ticking clocks that hinder choices to the demise of our circumstance
Ignorance and stifled voices
And Trident guised as self defense
Truly expendable, you are led by fear mongering and corporate corruption
Demons still peddling paper and hope from votes and wealth and saviours
The spoilt generation chasing fame
Eating themselves into an early grave
Causing devastation and never learning from their past mistakes
Don’t rain on my paradeDon’t rain on my parade
Or we’ll cut off your supply
We will cut off your head
We’re looking for any excuse to nuke
We’re ready for war, just give us a push
We can wipe out all life
Fight the good fight
We’re ready for hell or the heavenly light

Don’t rain on my parade

 

http://thegreatinsanity.bandcamp.com/track/tgi

_DSF4508(outofthelight)

 

do you dream of horses, my gentle Centaur?

RobDavidson:

beautiful and brilliant. i had to share.

Originally posted on Inner Focus:

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cotton on bones
bones on cotton
on a bed of fresh fern green
i watch you sleep.
sleeping arms,
long and slender
like strips of willow rest
by either side.
the head is tilted towards me
your mind, a whip,
lies coiled and contained;
folded up, locked inside
the sleeping skull;
the mind, tamed and tempered
only fleeting, in dreams
‘are you close, or
are you far away, my love?’
i impart my thoughts
upon you
with a temporal kiss.
you open your eyes
and gaze at me
eyes, turquoise and back-lit.
you are still asleep.
forehead to forehead
we talk.
limbs extended, arms entwined
burgeoning
for a kiss.
you move to untangle
restless, like a mustang,
with kicking feet.
‘do you dream of horses, my gentle Centaur?’
i kiss the flank
and watch you roll
in cotton crisp, and tangled.
you face the sea breeze
lingering in the open…

View original 496 more words

A little despair crept in today.

deed bird

 

No matter how hard i tried, i couldn’t make my atoms split and explode and wipe out this awful place forever in a giant mushroom cloud of scum?

Fife, Scotland.

Are we a nation of ill, underachieving neds?

An idea.

A walk.

A park.

Look at all those adequately provided bins, and all those empty juice bottles on the ground.

And why are those teenage bimbo girls sitting silent and motionless on a small child’s roundabout, just gawking at iphones? Creepy.

A castle.

Smells like pish.

Oops, someone’s forgotten to bin their three litre bottle of cheap cider.

Looks like someone’s had a fire. The grass is burned and a tree is destroyed.

They tried to burn a live tree?

A visit to a beach.

Watch out for the broken glass, the dog shit, the toilet roll with human ass paste smeared all over it, the litter and generally anyone else.

Like the three, young, next generation of ned, children.

Upon discovering a harmless jellyfish in its natural environment they decide to follow it as it graciously floated and flopped with the tide, before taking turns trying to smash it with rocks as their fat gormless mothers watched on smoking a fag with one nicotine yellow hand and a smart phone held desperately tight in the other, without a care or a clue to the injustice they are serving upon their own children and humanity (not to mention the fucking jellyfish) as they fail to teach their children the wonder and importance of nature and diversity and ecosystems and em…being a considerate person?!!

And as my own son can see their vulgarity he asks ‘how would they like it if we started throwing rocks at them?’

Of course i tell him we can’t condemn squishing a jellyfish while condoning the stoning of three ignorant cruel children. He understands the lesson, but inside i am thinking…why aren’t i allowed to twat those kids? Christ, even if i had tried to tell them to stop, or even spoke to them to try and educate them a little, an incident with the mothers would have kicked off. They would have hurled their massive sweaty sunburned bodies over the sand like irate elephant seals in cheap sports wear towards me, screeching to ‘leave their precious innocent bairns alane. Pedo! They’re just being bairns.’

And i couldn’t be arsed with that. Or explaining that, no, they are being young and naive human beings in need of guidance but you are obviously too lazy sitting on your wretched blubbery behinds, gossiping about someone else’s sex life and complaining about how being obese is not a valid reason to keep getting disability allowance, to bother!. Oh and also, i’m not a pedophile.

And meanwhile i’m missing the focus and enjoyment of my own family because i’m too concerned and outraged by others.

All i could do was physically move away from them. We took off along the beach in the other direction with me grumbling the whole way.

It just killed my mood slightly.

It killed the preconceived idea of the beautiful beach experience i was expecting and should have had.

It killed the idea that we are progressing as a species.

Humans are an amazingly unique, innovative and intelligent species. A genius race of architects.

So…what the fuck went wrong in Kirkcaldy?

No wonder Oliver Cromwell burned it down.

Deed Jellyfish

RIP buddy.

 

 

 

Things to do with my body when I’m dead.

deed

scoop me, scrape me up with an industrial size spatula
drive my dead ass across town
slap me on the slab
crack me open, fiddle around
drill my skull
find the brain that i used to be
remove it, hold it in your hands
make me an interactive art installation
push me in an oven and burn me
bung me in a box
stick me in a hole and cover me with dirt
cast your eyes down at me and say a prayer
as the worms and bacteria begin to consume me
process me, fill out the paperwork
toss me in the woods
or overboard at sea
let the crow and the fox or the fish and the crab fight it out over me
dump me in a wheelie bin (make sure its the brown one )
call a taxidermist, stuff me and mount me on the wall
or keep me under the bed for those lonely nights
cryogenically freeze my head or mummify me
resurrect me in a thousand years
remove my organs for someone in need
curry me
carve me up, marinade my paps
gas mark 5, serve with a bottle of rioja
plant a pine cone inside me
penny for the guy?
piss on me – a new drinking game – specific points for specific orifices
(empty eye sockets = five points each, dead open mouth = 10 points, sagging prolapsed anus = 30 points)
skin me and wear me to your next halloween party
liquify me and spread me on the fields
shoot me into space to become a comet’s tail
use me for scientific research instead of vivisection
put my balls on ice, extract my seed for desperate brooding females
grind me up, roll me up and smoke me
turn me to dust and to the wind
let it disperse me
to become a rock, a plant, a nebula
or even just grit in someone’s eye
when im dead do whatever you want to me
just…
dont forget me