This collection of poems represents the most poetical of productions gather’d from two decades worth of constant composition. The poems in the final mix were born from a wide variety of inspirations & periods. Some are stand-alone, one-off compositions; some are heavily edited versions of much longer epyllia, some have been crafted over two decades; some are sonnets, some are odes. Together they tell a story of sorts, a personal journey acoss the planet, intermingl’d with a paean to the truest of loves.

East Linton

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Eurasia, Eurasia, from tip to toe,
Men may wander thee forever in vain,
From the sensuous sierras of Spain
Men have stumbl’d thro’ Siberian snow
To the towers of spangling Tokyo,
Thro’ the jungles where Ganga parts plain,
Enough to send a troubadour insane,
For Shangri-La a myth most never know.

Yet… here lie the shores of Arabia,
There… the fjords of the Skull-helms of old,
Here… an angel-throne’d high Himalaya,
There… a castle of Prince Leopold,
For here beckon glimpses of Eurasia,
Reminding us with weathers manifold.



As Kestrels surf the mountain-fringed spaces,
Road twists between saturnine gargants,
Romantic mounds of monstrous magma,
Marvelous munroes of aulden minstrel-song,
Lost in the moment, eyes keen to the skies,
Hard traveling unravels, sailing above us
Silver-fire mists of the sylvan alpine rise,
& beyond, entering the stunning scope
Of another planet, another Jupiter,
Sodden expanse of treeless waste,
But beautiful land, stupendous Cuillin hills,
Seats of Titans, where thrusting solar shafts
Induce startling notions of timelessness,
Here there is no time, only milky flowing waterfalls.



I’m cringing every time I see
A garish Paisley tie,
I’d just popp’d hungry into Greggs
A hottish pie to buy,
There chose a steak & kidney,
Offer’d up for ninety pee,
I took the pie, she took the change
& said, “It’s ninety-three!”

I said, “Love, that’s false advertising,”
Stormin’ out the door,
But never mess wi’ Weegie Birds,
They’re proper fuckin’ hard-core,
&, leaping from her hum-drum,
She pursued me down the street,
Looking as if an earthquake
Were shaking a slab of meat.

She, panting, flat beside me,
Squeez’d the pastie from mi hand,
Smugging with satisfaction
At her petty jobsworth’s stand,
Turning her tail in triumph,
As back to her shop she skips,
You coulda balanced ninety-three
Bridies on those fat hips.

Whatmasposed to do with that,” I said,
“You’re off ya fuckin’ rocker!”
She basilisk’d a gaze like lead,
Said, “Fuck ye!” like a docker,
Then looking down on what was left,
My skin all bruis’d with mince,
I thought I’d catch the first train out,
Ain’t ever been back since!

Junkie Fucks


Great Junkie Street,
Zombie-crowded cash machines

Kids like, ‘Where’s-my-crack-pipe?’ boy,
Grinnin’ into school,
Thinkin’ he was cool.

“I’m never injecting,’ he blusters upsetly
Blazin’ about his Best Friend’s funeral:
At the Wake… easing grief… shoots up first time!

There’s a Junkie Fuck
Everwhere you look: in Leith

Crack-whore ‘Wudya,’ works the Leith Links’s edges,
A posh-painted Picture pick’d up by drunk dockers,
While her daughter chews straws at McDonalds.

Her looks are fading, she turns to friends,
Getting them hook’d so maybe they’ll pay
For these needles fresh ‘besties’ dare share.

The Skag is a slippery, shrieking Beast,
Cunning as Fox, strong as Lion,
Foul as farting Pig!

Don’t listen to what they say, but how they say it,
Bullshit Defence Mechanism takes control,
Insiduous serpent contorting thought.

How the hell can ya call it glamorous?
When glamping means begging up the North Bridge,
Contemplating suicide in torn, soggy shoes.

Viledom’s finest scourge Leith Walk,
Piping, “We are young…” “We can handle it…”
“…We could drop it just like that!”

But when they join the clucking Cold Turkeys
& Methadone Monkeys in gibbering clinics,

It’s more { { p e a c e f u l } } just to try it one last time.

There’s a Junkie Shmuck
Lonely, Soul-less, Stuck : in Leith

There’s a Bag-Head Prick
Itching itself sick: in Leith

Never babysit a Smack-Head!
If you show signs of weakness they will take
& take & take & lie & steal & take & scrounge

Matty Grooves


A holiday, a holiday,
The first one of the year,
A DJ’s wife came into the club
His top tunes for to hear.

& when the music it came on
She cast her eyes about,
& there she saw little Matty Grooves
Dancing in the crowd.

“Come home with me, little Matty Grooves,
Come home with me tonight,
Come home with me, little Matty Grooves
& sleep with me ’til light.”

“Oh, I can’t come home, I won’t come home
& sleep with you tonight,
By the rings on your fingers I can tell
You are the DJ’s wife.”

“But if I am the DJs wife
That DJ’s not at home,
For he’ll be up in the mixing booth
Spinning his silver chrome!”

So off they went into the night,
Hailing a taxi down
& partied on to the DJ’s pad
On the other side of town.

A barmaid who had watch’d them go
& heard all what was said,
Swore down that the DJ he would know
At the spinning of his set.

“O Matty Grooves, O Matty Grooves,
O Matty where have ye gone?”
“ I’ve gone to play with the DJs wife
Til the rise of the morning sun.”

Little Matty Grooves he made good love,
Then took a little sleep,
When he awoke coked-up cunt
Stood fuming at his feet.

Saying, “How do you like my feather bed?
& how do you like my sheets?
& how do you like my lady gay
Who lies in your arms asleep?”

“Oh, well I like your feather bed,
& brother I love your sheets,
But better I like your lady gay
Who lies in my arms asleep.”

Get up, get dress’d!” the DJ cried,
Get up as fast as you can,
It’ll never be said in Edinburgh
I slew a naked man.”

“Oh, I can’t get up, I won’t get up,
I can’t get up for my life,
For you’ve got two long ‘Wallace’ swords
& I aint got a pocket knife.”

Well, it’s true I have two ‘Wallace’ Swords
& they cost me deep in the purse,
But you will have the better of them
& I will have the worse.”

& you will strike the very first blow
& strike it like a man,
Then I will strike the very next blow
& kill you if I can”

“O Matty Grooves, O Matty Grooves,
O Matty where have ye done?”
“I was making love to the DJs wife
Til the rise of the morning sun.

So Matty struck the very first blow
& he hurt that DJ sore,
The DJ struck the very next blow
& Matty struck no more.

That blood-soak’d DJ grabb’d his wife
And sat her upon his knee,
Saying, “Who do you like the best of us
Matty Grooves or me?”

& then up-spoke his own dear wife,
Never heard to speak so free,
“I’d rather a kiss from dead Matty’s lips
Than you or your finery.”

The DJ he did flummox up
& loudly he did bawl,
He struck his wife right through the heart
& pinn’d her against the wall.

“A grave, a grave,” the DJ cried,
To put these lovers in!”
& then he the turntables,
His best set yet to spin.

When picking up his mobile phone
He’s dialing 9-9-9,
& said, “My lady wife is dead
I’ll confess to the crime!”

While raving topblast to his tunes,
His faves of Mr Scruff’s,
The Fuzz burst in his blood-red flat
& led him away in cuffs.

O Matty Grooves, O Matty Grooves,
O Matty where have ye gone?
Since you went off with a DJs wife,
You’ll never more see the sun!”

Hopes Reservoir


Across the world, among the vale of years,
Let’s intimate among the Lammermuirs
Our inclinations natural to roam
In heather’d heights above the feather’d foam;
Into the hills we drove, out of Dunbar,
Up in the ancyent moorland park’d my car,
Out of the front seat leapt a Lhassapoo,
My little Daisy, tho’ our souls seem two,
We are as one when walking in the hills,
By rocks & crags, by riverbanks & rills,
Up steep shelf climbing with unweary limbs,
By dam wall stood, singing internal hymns,
On lakeface gaze, hidden from human view,
No habitations here – a scatter’d few
Acolytes of nature praise in silence
This glory of East Lothian – a sense
Of verse endeavour heaving thro’ my pen,
To leave & drive my daemon to its den,
There recollect a second self-for I
& younger poets yet to daunder by.

This Is My Country


Good Morning Great Britain
Still great, still Britain
The sun is shining, 10:45 AM
£296.26 pence in my pocket
Time to bet it all on black & hit the road again

If time is a mere scratch & life is nothing
& nothing that occurs
Is of the slightest importance

Aberdeen to Birmingham, Arundel & Deal
Dullis Hill to Rotherham, Bristol & Peel
Inverness to Liverpool, Leeds & Palmer’s Green
Lewisham to Padiham & all the pubs between

‘Til my bardic breath expires

This is my Time, this is my Rhyme, this is my Country!

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