No Surprise To Me

I saw her late at night

her neck, a signpost

rising through the surface

to the skies

Loch’s leviathan

her charm, her presence

testament to strength

and what is wise

from hidden depths and caverns

came she upwards

as proof to disbelievers

who despise

the legacy of truth

within the legends

endurance of her spirit

against lies

emergent energy

when threatened, dismissed

force of nature

nurtured in disguise

risen to admonish

free the shackles

to clarify, reveal

to crystallise

the ever-present power

‘neath apparent

the what is possible

when spirits rise

revealing, by endurance

force of fabled

to the detriment of those

with blinded eyes

her eyes, those eyes

a steady, streaming light-force

gleaming, fixed on shores

on me

all ayes

what, said I, of myth

and disbelievers

the proof, she said

is rising when you try

I gazed a while

she froliced for my pleasure

or to prove, perhaps

that she had found the prize

across the lands

a vision from deep waters

to me, a true believer,

no surprise

Are We Fools?

Pride postures

Doesn’t think

Reveals its feelings

Lives its hubris daily

That’s its way

Decisions drafted blindly

Blinkered bullshit

Evidence of arrogance at play

Language of superior perception

Then wonders why and scoffs

When natives rise

Out of union

With no hint of sadness

Governance unjust

Of those unwise

No self-reflection

But for backward glory

For days of yore

When empire ruled the waves

Citing some equivalence

As righteous

Behold the truth of union

England save

Let us be Britannia

That story

Etched in minds

So privileged, promote

Ideaology, will not see buried

Ignominy, in parliament, by rote

The only flag that matters

Is the George cross

Andrew, Patrick, David

Servile names

Problems to be solved

And always have been

Extinguish nationhood

For other’s name

Woe to you, usurpers

Of the celtic

For fallen follows pride

As sure as fate

Come the day, the hour

Relive your words here

Masters manifest

The words of hate

Dismissing while upholding

Such is legend

In lands where one suppresses, ridicules

We are not slaves

Nor your possessions

Canny, aye

But are we fools?

Came across this video today on Twitter. Makes you proud to be an equal partner in this great union, where respect and progressive politics are at play. Imagine actually saying this! Funny, eh? No sense of humour, we Jocks. Inferiority complex, they say. Wonder why. Off now to the psychiatrist’s couch to discuss Stockholm Syndrome in hopes of convincing others we don’t need this shit. Who does? Tell me. Any independent country out there who would like to rejoin the fold and be patronised again? Any? Didn’t think so.

Carpe Diem

Oh, ye saboteurs, of all that you survey

By lies and licence, pedal what you pray

Truth always find its path and come what may

Your end is imminent, prepare to pay

In honesty, you could have saved the day

But hubris holds and governs all you say

A tongue, so forked, forfeits the right to sway

Make ready now, an army comes to slay

In rectitude, for all whom you dismay

The tide yet turns, reclaims sands on which you play

On distant shores the voices have their say

And, closer still, we wait to claim the day

To others, seeking justice, fairer play

Make ready, be prepared, to seize that day

No accident that angst has found its May

A shelter here for all who seek a better way

Oh, ye saboteurs, who thought to have their way

The time shall come, be sure, we’ll have our say

‘Please invoke some parliamentary rule.’

Easier said than done when it turns out that devolved government isn’t worth the paper it’s written on.

We will not go the path the Tories seek to go.

The path that UK governments have chosen time and time again.

Against our will.

Against our vote.

Against our sense of morality.

A country that does not elect right wing rule will not follow right wing rule.

Becoming more right wing by the day

We will not.

Never.

Our history decrees it so.

Our experience underlines it.

We will have self-rule.

Independence.

We will make our own decisions.

Decisions based on collective good.

Decisions made by us.

Not on dictats selected for us.

Today.

Tomorrow.

It shall come to pass.

Carpe diem.

Never their day.

Never.

Seizing now the day that is yet to come.

The day that says no to their distorted idea of how we should live.

It doesn’t have to be that way.

Now may not be here but it is on the horizon.

It’s near.

Nearer for our children than for us.

Seizing for them.

 

I hate that the world revolves around economics.

Hate isn’t too strong a word.

Detest.

Despair.

I would rather leave the oil where it is and embrace renewables but even that is being undermined by UKgov.

Just as relationships between the nations here have been undermined for generations.

Peddling a myth that divides.

That we, here in Scotland, need England to survive.

We don’t.

But we have more than oil.

So did the rest of the UK till it was sold off to the highest bidder. Privatised under Tory rule. Then globalised to a higher bidder. Creating a rentier economy at the expense of infrastructure. At the expense of regions all over the UK.

I hate no one.

No one.

Sure, there are nutters here who do hate the English. Like they’re some collective breed. Same as there are nutters in England who believe Daily Heil lies about Scottish scavengers/traitors/cybernats. There are nutters all over the world. Hating on whoever they’re told to.

I repeat. I hate no one. Most do not.

If your papers tell you otherwise, you’re reading the wrong papers.

Listening to the wrong news.

My god, I wish it could be different.

But while we want what so many across these isles probably also want – a just society – it cannot be while our voices drown in Westminster.

Fifty-six MPs advocating change cannot compete fairly against hundreds happy with the status quo.

Cannot change what needs changing.

We have to begin here.

In Scotland.

In our own back yard.

We are a country, whether some acknowledge that or not.

Yes, it will be tough.

We know that change is tough.

But tougher yet would be complaining and not trying to change it.

I am working for the change I want to see.

Seizing the moments that lead to the day.

We all can.

Please do not give up. Wherever you are.

Please. Seize.

My heartfelt and sincerest sympathies for those in these isles who want what we want and cannot make it so by dint of no worthy opposition. Neither can we while tied to the UK. Arithmetic makes it so.

The kettle’s on. You’re welcome here.

And the weather isn’t as bad as you think if you’re from northern climes.

Dear Diary,

I’m beginning to wish I hadn’t taken on this job. Everybody is being mean to me while I’m just trying my best to fulfil the will of the people. If only I knew what that was. The numbers and facts are so confusing. I thought it would be easy. But it’s not. It’s so hard! Hard Brexit. That’s all I meant by that.

And now everyone is pushing me this way and that. I’m heading down a one-way alley and I think I might get a kicking at the bottom of it.  Tackety boots are looming and my kidneys are turning to mush. I can feel it in my water.

Everything I said before is coming back to haunt me. Quotes that made sense then being used against me now. As if a lady can’t change her mind. I mean, that’s a foregone thingy. We get to do that. Look at Ruthie. She does it all the time. And nobody picks her up on it. Except those pesky Nats. Always wanting to clarify what was said then with what’s being said now. Things change. Don’t they, Diary?

I mean, if I flip back through your pages, I know that there will be a few things that are difficult to explain. But that’s the nature of politics. We fabricate. Embroider a bit. Lie occasionally. Sometimes a lot. Everybody knows that. I don’t know why some people are making such a fuss about it. Even people on my own side. Infamy! They all have it in for me. Such a carry on!

I think the EU have their knives ready too and I’m going to be carved up as soon as I say Article 50. It’s not looking good, Diary. I feel like I’ve been prepped for a feast and I’m the main meal. It’s not meant to be like this. It was meant to be glorious. Like back in the day. You know, empire and all pulling together under difficult circumstances. Vera Lynn and a singsong. Everybody was meant to rally!

Maybe I should resign. Leave it to those cads that buggered off after the vote. Let them wipe up their own jizz.

What to do, Diary? Tell me. Please. I’m not kidding. I don’t know who to trust any more. Gideon’s gone and got another job and I think he might have it in for me too! Little shit that he is. Probably penning hate mail as I write. What will I do? I don’t know if I can cope with any more facts from my own people. Bad enough the Others getting at me across the floor – bastards, I owe Angus Robertson one for that screeching comment – but having to fend off your own people is too much. Maggie didn’t have this in the beginning. Everybody sucked up her jacksie. I’m being hung out to dry!

I wasn’t all that brill as a home secretary but I thought I could get away with this role. Everybody would support me. Lots of people to back me up and make me look good. But they don’t. Even when I tell them the colour of Brexit some people insist on being obtuse. I need to keep saying the same things over and over and over and over and over again to get them to understand. And still they make out that I’m not being clear. I mean, how clear do I have to be? I’ve practically drawn a picture and coloured it in. And they just don’t understand that the colour is so important. It has to be red, white and blue.

And now that awful woman, with the fishy name, is threatening to take the blue out of my picture. It’s beyond the pale. Just who does she think she is? Anyone would think that she was the leader of a country or something. Instead of the leader of that shower of separatists who want to split my precious. How dare she! I am the ring keeper. The guardian of the one that binds us all. It’s my job. My privilege. I have been chosen. Well not chosen, exactly. I volunteered and the rest were woeful. Chosen by default. Anyway, I’m it. And I know I can do this. I just need to keep repeating positive mantras, try not to say say ah and um too often and I might get away with it.

Diary, I think I need to go call on some friends and get the word out  here and there that the Scots are splitters. Poor splitters at that. Poor I tell you. Incapable. Such a drain on us. Unappreciative of the gracious bounty we bestow on them. Willing to jeopardise my our glorious Brexit. Unwilling to be used as collateral. I don’t even know why we keep them around. Well, obviously, I do, but that shall be our little secret, Diary. Yes, I know that our credit rating looks dodgy if they leave but they don’t know that, do they? Do they? They do. Oh, shit! Back soon, Diary. Wonder if Gordon can remember his lines.

 

Dear Tess,

Don’t take this personally but I can’t cope any more with your mental meanderings. Word to the wise. Stop. Don't write anything else down. Don't speak. Just stop. 

Don't look for me. To save you from further embarrassment, I've thrown myself onto a bonfire.

Good luck. You're gonna need it. 

Diary