you said I’m as sour as

blueberry sour razz when

I don’t get the joke, and

yes that is quite often

but just because a frown

has formed a thousand

times and now my brow is

furrowed doesn’t mean

I thought you were mean

or meant to hurt my feelings

promise I am super fun and

funny even though you had to

tell me I did not understand

the “joke” about third wheeling.

Green felt surface beneath my toes and it looks like subuteo oh you beauty, oh look at the carpet they’ve rolled out for us and, little daisy yellow stars in a galaxy of greenest green. The green that only comes after long grey days and cold nights where your lips could turn blue if the windows open, but bluebells shake in gentle whispers on the breeze that say something new is coming like they had promised all of us before without result, but bluebells don’t lie the same way the skies do and bright blue makes way to slate grey and snow comes, when you thought it was time for snow cones, I always said the best thing about April was the cold.

Please don’t make me cry you

said, I won’t ever promise that no

I won’t ever, promise that. Tears

are not what I want to see run

down your blushing cheeks,

such a pretty smile must be

far too precious to risk hurting with

harsh words or poor treatment.

Treat meant something nice the

last time I checked, and often

little gems that let us polish them

shine brighter in the sun but still

you stopped me mid sentence

and said NO.

Please don’t, MAKE me cry!

and you show a different smile.

I should have paid attention to

your sparkleshine, begging eyes

hungrier even than after missing

sunday dinner that day when you

led me bashful to the font,

and softly asked to be set free

from all your evil sins and want.

Soft and light and sweet and

under duress from breeze and

rain drops bigger than you

thought you’d see or feel on

the petals that unfurl in sun

and retreat under pressure from

above, petals unfurl and then

it rains and rains because

the weather isn’t meant for you

even while the promise of spring

was whispered by the shifting

wind and how it blows up up

from the firths edge and over

hills and in the garden where

you strain and stretch and try to

grow and grow big and strong

with summers song and all the

suns encouragement that you

did nothing wrong in reaching

up towards the sky and standing

strongly on your own, from mud

and rocky soil you’ve grown

Knowing that the sun is very

proud of every flower when it

tries.

Whooshing over me and over trees

branches bent by whistling windy

but soft swirling tufts of cloudy

cotton wool stretched by breeze

and weighed by last drops of

rain that all the greedy grasses and

flowers need to get big like mum

said milk would make me and I

see the sun sun sun try and break

through with blue pushing fluffy

white carpet to the side and then

I run run run all the way from the

old train tracks where we built

the base from the base of an old

car and pallets from the mannys

shop, I thought manny was his

name but he’s just the manny from

the shop

and I run run run back to Arrans house

and tell his mum that Arran bit right

through his tongue when Freddie

swung the tire swing too hard and far

and Freddie pierced his light ups

on a rusty nail that

we failed to see when building up

the walls to make adventures in.

The suns out now and tonight

the clocks go back or forward

I’m not sure but I cant go back

just forward and toward all these

different things that might be fun,

different fun from what little boys

in summer run toward with open

hearts and minds still hoping

for adventures down the nature trail

the council turned the railway into

before anything bad had

ever happened to a kid

Stormy skies split by sunburst

rain runs down bark ridges like

the sweat that runs along path

ways previously explored with soft

breath and lips just above your

prickled skin, hairs stand on end

and you feel your breath short

and stilted, begging words in your

mind as you bite your lip and

the rain pours over slate roofs

down and into the stream that flows

beneath the street, stream turns

burn turns river turns torrent

swollen against banks that strain

and writhing forces bubble up

glisten in the sunshine peeking

through, sunshine on your skin

through the window though the

rain doesn’t stop, and you say

don’t stop, it doesn’t matter if

some passing stranger stops

to watch spring touch your skin

and buds that burst into bloom

dewdrops sweet upon my lips

the rain won’t stop but now

the sounds of water roaring

quietened by words you whisper

in my ear, begging words you

wouldn’t offer anyone but

readily said under new sun

begging words for spring to

come.

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Mwah xx

Spring was meant to come

last week when you said

you would be home again

but still the clouds sit low

and swollen over sullen

eyes fixed upon a point

in time just ahead of

what I can see or touch.

Heavy over happy hills

that sit and mock their

name,

knowing just as well as

you do that hills can’t be

happy but for one moment

-wet and windswept up

in the nimbus drizzle,

hidden from the view

of your shit town

but spring is coming

and soon the clouds will

lift up and up and up and

sit high and cotton fluffy

in a blue sky warming.

You will come home and

the daffodils will look

brighter than the sun that

feeds them, bite the hand

that passed me Prozac

now i don’t need them, when there

are signs that lead to happy hills

for those with eyes to see them.

Cold out but not

as cold

as it should be,

February red ruby

kissed

the warm blush of spring

just ahead,

the warm blush of skin

in your bed

when my fingertips

trace fading pictures

the old you picked out

of dreams that used

to trouble your sleep.

Ruby red under

the soft surface

that draws

my lips toward it, ruby red

paper cut hearts, thread

together intertwined and

tightly knotted, looping

same at the end as

it was at the start.

Cut a paper heart,

ruby red turned crimson

in a different light,

it’s cold out but

it could be colder, like

a kiss deflected by

a cold shoulder, so

I cut a paper heart and

pass it to its holder.

Mwah

pecked at like a polystyrene carcass

careful not to swallow circles

harmful to my health, internal discord

between the meat of the message and

the spoiled flesh of empire, poised to

rot in the baking sun after winter is gone

preserved for now in cold, sub zero

frozen in the time extending between

here and the end of all things.

Under the thumb of a vengeful god

I could be nothing but a smudge of red

or a patch of snow that smells like iron,

crimson blemish on the white ground before

you, but nothing will wash away. Tears won’t

bleach the crime scene from the memory

of whatever or whoever remains when

I’m gone and you are too, souring as

the seasons move and cold things retreat

all that’s left is the corpse rotting, streets

consumed by plagues of flies that feast

on all the lies you told when asked if

it was right for to YOU to preach belief, you

told me trust in god and I asked you

if god believes in me? blood splatter on the

church steps where you told me to wait

for a sign, rain clouds brought something

born of a fruit that rots there on the vine-

the soil was spoiled before the thaw let

spilled blood soak the earth again, nothing

beautiful will grow here tomorrow but

wild flowers often follow where we fall, and

after blooming scatter on the wind and

meadows form and petals flutter when

we remember.

they are outside the house

watching every time i look

out there, where its gone dark

with grey and gloom that now

permeates and dulls the

colours of life that we have

grown accustomed to.

The skies are darker every

morning, even though the

days are longer, growing

stretching further into evenings

where discussions hush

afraid of who or what is

listening, but sure that

something is.

I don’t want to be

a curtain twitcher, hiding

but not hidden from a

world that has always scared me

-even making friends is hard-

but now that the ends are

frayed and frameworks left

to rust and wither in the

face of

storms that were promised

but arrived ahead of

schedule, dark skies and

long months of rain, it feels

like promises

of summer, now shrouded

by worse weather ahead, and

still the birds are watching

lined up in a row waiting

for the thundercrack that

allows the heavy heavens to

split and down comes snow

or white ash swirling, i

don’t know which or if

i will be here to see sun

or seasons change again,

i fear another winter.

Even after long hours in

sweet dreams elsewhere

I awaken with the sun

and watch the quiet road

no one really stirring, though

the incinerator never sleeps.

Burning things ejected from

your house and your

neighbours house and

their aunties house and

the heat haze makes the

horizon shimmer even

though the roof tiles

are frost kissed, no, bitten

I mistake them sometimes.

Every day the sun reaches

curious fingers around

my neck, and

I sit and watch a world

that did not stop burning

set ablaze again.

Look in the green eyes of

a nervous cat that sits

restless at my side,

understand her fear of

loud noises and outside.

The world is burning,

even when I sleep

knots in my stomach

tighten like a noose

I didn’t tie,

wrapped twice around

my neck in stupor

sweet dreams no longer

soothe when the

day tastes bitter,

still

I awaken choking on

the ashes of every

lie I told myself.

The world is burning but

my bed is cold and

long dark winters seem

to stretch beyond

endurance,

solitude can

be cacophony,

rattle of rain drumming

against the window

in the rhythms of war

I wonder when their

guns turn to me

will I remember to smile?

My uncle says that

special branch are

listening to

his calls

he said that birds

aren’t real and

gulls are all

a type of drone

I laughed

the first time he said

his neighbour tunnelled

in his walls

He’s digging up

the garden now

to find the agents

tracking him sure

they’ve set up some

subterranean station

to monitor important

communications

His nails are chipped

and some are broken

bloody fingertips and

swollen purple knuckles

Still digging and

still digging and

still digging in the rain

and deepening mud

searching for

something other than

sitting in his room

alone and unable to

be anything he imagined.

He doesn’t believe

in god, why would he?

When he doesn’t believe

in good or the

value of his breath.

Getting nothing

out of living

but still terrified

of death

My uncle thinks

that special branch

are listening to his calls

walk in the mist or is it fog?

what if i could fade into it?

dissolve on a cold morning

turn to vapour and mixed up

in with water desperate to ice

fracture and bind with swirling

particles from exhausts and

the waste centre down the road

blow away in the afternoon

when the wind comes and the

suns faint heat reveals the distant

streets beneath me, as I float away

i can’t stand the sound of other people

talking in the pub, i hear every single

thing at once, and it builds and builds

until its like a thousand voices all

shouting at me at different speeds

but the sound of the sea?

i could listen to the waves crash

eternally, or even longer

imagine being driftwood or

maybe just a bubble in the surf

a drop of water in the infinite

but in it, that’s the difference

between us, and the oceans

the city does not taste the same

the only waves here come from sirens

blue lights flashing while they wail

sails billow in my dreams, I think of

sand, and cowrie shells

I wait for a siren to sing me to

the bottom of the sea, salt water

on your lips dripping, finger curls

beckoning to me, i’d sooner drown

again, than deny you it

so i

will slip below the surface

with you

and into the arms of the sea

oblivion as ecstasy, the waves crash

like all the rules you break in your

dreams, cold water shock of want,

running to the sea, to avoid what

you can see with your eyes closed

on your knees, “please deliver me from

wanting all that’s wrong for me”

Clear skies make the

grass look silver in

the moonlight pouring

down over my head

like cascading

streams that scour

and scar the rolling

hills with swollen

twisting waterfalls.

The bones of an

old house exposed,

timber rots away

like the memories

of a family who

long ago became

ghosts.

Lay my body in

the meadow where

dormice and starlings

rest and let me

sink into the earth

fade and seep beneath

and let my spirit

blend with ancient

peat.

Maybe if I burn away

the light will help

your heart rest and

let the dark that

follows

bring you

peace.

Weigh down my pockets with

smooth rocks and pebbles

I collect

on my way down the shore,

wild swimming or slow sinking

frigid water running over

toes that balance

on a jagged floor.

I can hear the gulls cry and

I wonder if they know,

what I’ve seen or

where I plan to go?

Whale skull with a

family of wagtails

chirping where it used

to think.

I wonder which creatures

would choose me for

a nest,

is there space within

these cavities for

something good to grow?

Canary yellow and

singing in a hollow

in my chest, gripping

ribs like branches,

twisting in the wind

autumn to winter to autumn

to winter

summer seems a

promise,

made by a liar with

questionable intentions.

I will close my eyes

until April comes and

I can feel it thaw,

all

that has been frozen

to protect from

some imagined harm.

Shadows taste like raspberry ripple

won’t the light coming through

show me something different than

the things between now and before.

Watch them flicker as the clouds move

across the sky outside and make the

dancing lights tell me a story about

a world I started to shut out long ago.

Even though I still let the light in

I won’t ever let it touch my skin

Build a wall into my doorway

Leave one last brick out for now

or then, maybe it’s time to finish

the barrier I need to hide behind,

between everything I want the most

and all the pain that comes along

from wanting anything from anyone.

Brick up the doorway for me

Leave warnings on the stones

let the plants within my home

grow strong around my bones,

let me think until there’s nothing,

left to think until there’s nothing

left for me to know.

Talk to my plants before I go to

sleep, promise I’ll wake up for them,

Plants don’t know about crossing fingers,

but they understand roots.

Citrus sharp and sour

tart and tingling on your

swollen lips

bee stung some’d say

but don’t they

know the

taste of honey?

Bathe your skin in milky

moonlit waters and

trace a constellation

of freckles that

sit and speckle

your nose and cheeks

like wild flowers

in

the meadow

near the lake.

Take my hand and

lead us down

beneath the surface,

and the things you

try and hide from.

Silent treatment

doesn’t work

too well when

you can’t stay

quiet.

I remember

secret things that

may remain buried

but spring will come,

like you like to

in the sun,

and soft petals

will

unfurl again.

Dewy blossom

in the morning

arched toward the light

and the heat,

beads of you sweet,

even sweeter

than honeysuckle scent

or peach tea

just like on holiday,

though you always

went for

cloudy lemon.

European evenings

after

sticky afternoons

go to bed

with sticky fingers

after

sneaking to your room.

Long winter same

as always,

the ice will

arrive

on dark mornings,

but it will thaw

with the heat

of your breath

as you

“remember” summer.

Saying my name

along with gods

and you don’t

believe in either.

It’s only real when

you can touch it.

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I remember

learning knots

in the hall

behind the church

where

I went to scouts-

where I first

found out

that people thought

I wasn’t cool or

fun or even smart.

Even though that

hurt my feelings

I wanted to learn the knots,

even annoying people

can use ropes.

Sometimes wish

someone

else had

shown me them,

and

maybe I wouldn’t

dream of knots

so often

in the tree

I picked out

years ago-

cherry blossoms

in April, somewhere

nice to sit.

Imagine petals caught

in a breeze and dancing

not wet laces dangling

under a bare branch

in dark December

dirty marks on my

shoes because

I tried to change

my mind, but

I still remember

and

my knots are good.

So instead

when synapses fire

and expose

my faulty wires

that plead with me

to tie that knot,

I imagine cherry

blossoms in the

wind and clear

blue sky

behind them.

The sun will

come out again

so

I’ll sooner sit

and swear to

count the knots

on every tree

alive,

before I tie one.

I used to love the club kinda

Only ever really enjoyed it with my camera so there was some sense of a barrier between me and everyone else, and they wouldn’t find out I was lame. I was drinking and smoking a lot of weed and taking shrooms and ecstasy a fair bit at this point, my second main multi substance consumption era. 17-19 was the first, a story for another time.

Anyway, these are from some different nights at the GSA union in its second iteration (less piss puddle toilets, better speakers, slightly worse atmosphere).

Shooting performers and DJs is always fun but if you wanna really capture the energy you have to shoot the crowd the majority of the time (imo)

the guy gaining his friends hat but losing out on his crush is the best series of images ive ever taken

I will write something soon promise

big kiss

I worry about my mum dying, she isn’t ill but she always thinks she might be. I worry about my sister getting hit by a truck when she rides her bike home nightly. I worry that my fathers next scan is going to show new tumours, I worry that I’ll get cancer too. I worry that he will die and I will be the one who has to find his body, I worry I will never find someone and never have anyone to find me. I worry that some syphillic strong man is going to have a bad day and blow up Faslane and turn western Scotland to glass, I worry about a Terminator 2 style nuclear blast. I worry about resource wars, and armed quadcopters and autonomous weapons platforms. I worry that people think I am annoying. I worry that they are right. I worry that my gran went to hell for killing herself, I worry that I’m going too to. I worry that they started killing people, I worry that they never stopped. I worry about food security, I worry about spoiled crops and ruined soil, I worry that i’ll never understand another human. I worry about a horrible future, I worry about no future, I worry about a mediocre future, I worry about success, I worry about failure. I worry that I’m wasting every single day of my life worrying about the next one and the three before it, I worry.

I worry that I’m too smart and too cool and too funny, I worry that no one understands me cos they’re too bummy. I worry that I’m too elite, that I’m too excellent, I worry that things are going to turn out embarrassingly well for me like too too blessed, I worry that I’ll never once be too too stressed, I worry that I’m too in demand, too hot too sexy, too many hunnis desperate to text me.

I worry that prozac is not enough to moderate my mood swings.