Cheat

Separate My Head From My Shoulders

Is it worth the trip for
The long walk home that follows?
Work tomorrow will be awful,
But it’s only work and we’ll live on
In the marks we make;
Beer rings in the table stake our claim to this place.

Is it worth believing
That school dinners are the reason 
For our stunted features
And misdirected treasonous feelings
Towards teachers, and leaders,
And people on the street who look at us wrong?

But behind all my petulance resides a greater truth
My introspection circumvents the pressures of my youth.
I’ll never have to swim a length or run four-minute miles
But after all my bluff and bluster dies, all that’s left is mine
- what a time to be alive.

But that’s not all
I’ve spent today potholing in my couch for a windfall.
And that’s not all
I twitch my curtains towards those gossamer Trossachs beyond.

Is it worth remembering
Through cycle paths and nettle stings,
Industrial estates where
Tectonic plates shake the birds awake
And away through
Cracked window panes and hollows roofs,
And back to the comfort of the eaves
Outside my room?

But by August I'd relented
And I'd learned to suffocate the thought
That all of this will dissolve one day
And take me with it.

But even as my apprehension labels me “recluse”
I’ll slink outside wearing disguise as adults always do.
I’ll never have to swim a length or run four-minute miles
But when all of my inertia meets all of my desires
I’ll have to pick a side.

That’s not all.
I’ve spent today potholing in my couch for a windfall.
And that’s not all,
I twitch my curtains towards those gossamer Trossachs beyond.
But what if that’s all?
I’ve spent my day potholing in my couch
And all I got was crumbs on the floor.
And if that’s all,
I’ll keep staring out my window at those gossamer Trossachs beyond.		

Is it worth remarking
That all good things worth departing for
Are scary done correctly,
And terrifying kept at bay?

Gossamer Trossachs

I know that you’re angry about getting old,
But who’s fault is that?
You’re angry about living in those tenements
With those high ceilings that you could do without.

I understand you’ve been mistaken.
For young Robert Redford in your day.
Well today you’re looking browbeaten, befuddled
And I’m sure Robert feels just the same.

But don’t worry;
When we bury your body, we’ll keep you intact,
Apart from the bits you won’t need.
We’ll recycle your insides
As spare parts for people
Who’ve earned a little piece of your time
So I hope that you’ve lived
A virtuous life.

You never used to ride the bus
Until time and tax made it affordable
Your bike just sits there and rusts
Like your joints, your temper, you’re terrible for it.

When we bury your body, we’ll keep you intact,
Apart from the bits you won’t need.
We’ll harvest your guts
And we’ll siphon your blood
For the benefit of the rest.
To make use of your organs
And the peace you’re afforded
And to care not for your misdeeds
So I hope that you’ve lived
A virtuous life.

A Virtuous Life

First-footing after one too many drams,
It's not an excuse but it's just how I find myself.
The structural integrity of my shoes
Compromised by the snow;
Our hosts too drunk to notice
As my feet thaw out all over their lino.
And if cleaning up the very next day,
One of them should slip and break their neck,
I'd feel terrible.

Dialysis machines and iron lungs,
It's my disgraceful inclination just to stare.
My grandmother recovered
In a hospital bed;
I'm indebted to them,
And though I don't know what delayed her,
I regurgitated my worries everywhere.
And if going back the very next day,
I should find I scared her half to death,
I'd feel terrible.

I learned to ride a bike when I was five,
On the west coast by a postcard picture castle.
Clear nights we'd row the boat out
And attack from the sea,
To see the bats and the satellites
As the tide clambered over the beach.
And if I ever go back there one day,
Only to find that everything had changed,
That'd be terrible.
And if I ever go back there one day,
Only to find that nothing really changed,
That wouldn't be so terrible at all.

First-Footing

Is my memory deflating
Or my brain degrading?
I've spent too much time avoiding confrontation.
If I think too much I'll break it,
And if I don't I might erase it;
Where do I go when I'm asleep, but I don't dream?

I'm contentious when I'm rattled
And cantankerous and haggard.
Will I Scrooge my way to good grace by the end?
I'm concerned about disorder
And the thought of growing older,
And especially about the inevitable heat death of the Universe.

It's not unlike me to espouse
Advice that I won't take myself
So take it from me:
The world intends dismemberment,
You're more than empty space
But one day that's all you'll be.

When the thought takes hold
It embraces like disaster
And demands that I imagine how this ends.
Lifeless and inert,
Every dead star, every pattern
Was unique in its perspective from the Earth.
I think it was good for me.

It's not unlike me to espouse
Advice that I won't take myself
So take it from me:
The world intends dismemberment,
You're more than empty space
But one day that's all you'll be.

The Inevitable Heat Death Of The Universe

Untethered

Fingertips to lips,
We could resuscitate each other,
Sift the water from your lungs.
Regurgitate the pieces of the 
Sea you chose to keep,
And when you breathe
You’ll hear the rushing of the swells. 

Fingertips to lips,
We could resuscitate each other,
Two more wrecks preserved upon the land.
Hoping to dissolve;
A conscious choice to stay uncovered
To erode with every scrape of the sand.

The light’s out in the lighthouse.

Fingertips to lips,
To check for breathing undefeated
But, depleted, only bubbles get released.
They rise with the tide to scour the
Rocks with time and water,
Drawing tiny indentations on the beach.

The light's out in the lighthouse.

Tiny Indentations

Spun out in a crash,
Concussed, prickled with glass.
Swallowed up,
Sinkholes and mud
Trapping and releasing in hurricanes and sludge.

It’s leaking just as it builds up;
A trickle or a flood is not enough to
Relieve the pressure of delirium,
To break the spell we cast upon ourselves.

And when it hits
It feels like it’s all getting away from me.
When it hits
It feels like all there is.

A body of little building blocks.
A house of cards,
Compromised by mistakes and mights,
Pirouettes and tumbles
Uncontrolled lies

Tripping over its own feet,
Stumbling in speech.
Just one more to
Relieve the pressure of the bared teeth,
The searchlight eyes illuminating the streets.

And when it hits
It feels like it’s all getting away from me.
When it hits
It feels like all there is.

Tripping over my own feet,
Stumbling in speech.
Just one more to
Relieve the pressure of the heartbeats,
The ribs that could be crumbling piece by piece

And when it hits
It feels like it’s all getting away from me.
When it hits
It feels like all there is.

Sinkholes

We let ourselves be thrown;
Pirouettes encircling the plughole.
Sunrise, land slides,
Stumble and swell,
We collide to make new life,
But as far as we can tell

We always fall
After all.

We let ourselves unwind,
Strung out into pieces
Straining for the sky,
But anchored down.
From this height
We conspire to leave the ground
From this depth, denied.

We always fall,
After all.

It grabs and flings us round.
Caught up in a ceilidh,
Sweating as we dance.
We’ve both been fooled - 
Standing still,
We can’t tell that we've moved
‘till I stumble into you.

We always fall.

Fall

"Doesn't sound like he's howling, does it?"
- Roddy Hart, BBC Radio Scotland

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Rev. Howlin' John Murphy