Please welcome to the Page...
Aberdeen's finest....
the raw and gritty OLI PODDER!

Ode to Msq1

 

Like a tower of excellence,
strong as a skurry,
ye stand ahead o the cemetery.
Nae death here, though,
only development.
Sweet development!
Glorious development!
I love the Council
and what they’ve done.
From their Marshial Palace
now Rabbie Bruce looks upon
the modernist work,
the glass and grey panel,
stoic and strong as the iron
he is made of
for he is like a statue, a statue. 

 

Dinna get yer dander up!
Gie us
a gander
up!
Atween savagery and kin
o companies,
their smiles and hope
be teuch as aul beets.
The Council be full of staoters, see -
but when development’s done
there’ll be a many silly bizzom
selling the nicht doon the pier,
floating in the sea.

Up tae the hills o siller,
the hills of fortunes told
in the days
of no longer -
aye, yer rent will be paid
by the finest businessmen.
Come morn’s morn
and no more shall mourn -
the Marschial development
stands like a giant hammer
smashing the slums,
paving the granite paths
to offices, conference halls
and tae precious banks.

 

And those that say nae
to development?
Woeful wallagoos!
Hang yerself off Mercat Cross
why don’t ye – impale yerself
on that horn o the unicorn.
Ye’ve suppit the kale,
afore the grace
o Development
ya Weegie bastards.
Snobbish and vegan,
Foodstory fuckers
eating lettuce for breakfast
at Foodstory.

 

I’ll kick yer bilhoocher if yer nae careful!
Aye, I for one am fair-tricket
tae see Development brand-new and spickin,
spitting on the commoners.

 

Council gie us the hale jing bang
and what dae we dae? Ye scream
yet pitiful protest, all in a circle,
round as a soor ploom,
a leftist fankle,
like bulldugs chaain a hive o wasp.
But the council has the best quines!
We’ll sting ye back tae the slums!

 

Nae brookie
like the old thing before.
It’s got ice cream, burritos, mare!

The evenin reed wi flames,
Rosemount and Seaton as ash,
fertile fir tae new bonnie granite blocks
o capitalist understanding.

 

Am nae kippin
wi excitement.
See when it’s full,
each windae pane full o gold
and light, full o office clerks,
that’ll be the end o Development.
Aye, that’ll be the day
o Council sun. Hooray!

 

(Ta very muckle)

Ode to Seagulls

 

Aww, ye wee white snippets!
Snapping yer tails
like ye want a bit o my biscuit.
You cannot have it!
You cannot have
my biscuit.

 

Be it gloamin or foreneen,
mony a mickle
o biscuit
maaks a seagull. 

 

Pool o pyools,
salvation fir ma biscuit
Nae mare!
Is but crumbs
Like the dust an sand
o Aberdeen Beach.

 

Ode to Oil

 

Ah sticky black thing,
you cling
to the underside o our city off-city,
the rigs o glory!

Please welcome to the Page...
a bit too fancy for us but we'll take it....
the raw and gritty Johnny Littlegrave!

Dismantling a pen

First the clip,
a bitten mercury lip.
A smooth splinter in the side
of every empty notebook.

The shell, a mortar dome
simmering with liquid nib,
melting metal between
the lines, hemisphere curling.

Now the core, the thin white

missile of blackened bore,
a groove bitten inward
for oil. Empty lollipop stick.

The squid-like inward
nuzzle, clear as a doodle.
Plastic rocket (suit-able).

The spring’s a flying thing.
Wiry sine, the iron helix,
staircase of an idea.

We took this weapon
of oil, ink, black
Promethean fire,

and shot out the insipid, the inspired, the intellectual, the intelligible, the industry of things.   

Moderate’s Manifesto
 

SEIZE THE MEANS OF PRODUCTION
SEIZE THE MEANS OF PRODUCTION (but not too much)

PROLETARIAT OF THE WORLD UNITE
PROLETARIAT OF THE WORLD UNITE (except sex workers)

EMPATHISE WITH THE MARGINALISED
EMPATHISE WITH THE MARGINALISED (despite their accents)

BELIEVE THE UNBELIEVABLE
BELIEVE THE UNBELIEVABLE (but be reasonable)

FOR THE PEOPLE
FOR THE PEOPLE  (, polite and decent citizens who march along 

    designated roads)

YOU HAVE NOTHING TO LOSE BUT YOUR CHAINS
YOU HAVE NOTHING TO LOSE BUT YOUR CHAINS (though this 

    one was 20,000p so actually don’t lose it that would be v bad it was v 

    expensive and made from real silver and I don’t want to trek back to the

    store past the picket line just to buy another one I’ll get milkshake over

    my suit)

OPEN THE PRISON
OPEN THE PRISON(to visitors)

FREEDOM
FFFFFFFFF(for Parliament)

VOTE SOCIALISM
VOTE SOCIALISM (if you want)

NATIONALISE
NNNNNNNNN (the little things)

REVOLUTION WILL COME
REVOLUTION WILL COME(in 5-7 working days)

THE WAY TO CRUSH THE BOURGEOISIE IS TO GRIND THEM        

    BETWEEN THE MILLSTONES OF TAXATION AND INFLATION
    (but politicians are people too)

*
 

Say you’re at the grand palace of Power.
Big whoop. You sit on the lowest bronze step 
drinking from crystal cold against your pout.
Look down in horror at the other world,
the lower world, the world you deserted:

revolution squats in one gold orbit.
The hurricane of progress has arrived.
You feel the need to fight. You understand
theory; you are keen in social approach,
ally to the dissatisfied in life,

so you stay seated because a burnished
god breathes down your neck. Miss Fury
rises in a plume of red, twists round,
stares right in your face. IT IS TIME, she says.

stares right in your face. IT IS TIME, they say.   

 (Now hesitate)

Please welcome to the Page...
the wonderful Christian Garduno!

Women always have babies and cry
A man plays music & has big dreams
She spends all her money on shoes
           & complains the baby needs milk
A man gets up at 4 in the morning
he don’t eat & he ain’t hungry

Women always leave and take the babies
A man plays the blues & lets loose his dream
she spends all your money on diamonds
           & complains the baby needs new shoes
A man stays up til 4 in the morning
thirsty & still drinking.

Please welcome to the Page...
the wonderful J-T KELLY!

While I tangled the sheets,

While my breath became sour,

While I snorted and drooled,

 

She undid meaning’s knots

And sweetened it with notes

Of song on shining lips.

 

Without even a light,

She navigated deep

Caverns, currents, cupboards

 

Where living creatures live

And shifting letters thrive,

Where words make secret love.

 

In what form did she find

The poem she finished?

Mist, ichor, honey, loam?

 

What craft did she practice

On it? Midwifery,

Horticulture? Murder?

 

How is it that I’m left

With her gift, while she lurks

Unknown, down in the dark?

Untitled
 

January 14, 2013

 

Behind slack and wine-stained lips

A gnarling tongue and sharp teeth sit

An empty verse for lack of mind

A bright and whiteness for the blind

Eyes that, to you, are all you know

Though for myself are just for show

As I set down my heavy head

To think not of words but shapes instead

The heavens still and weather calms

And color blooms in rainy balm

I listen closer to the night

Than any hour of midday light

The songs we wrote in endless black

The songs that sing "You'll not come back"

For every hour seems a maze

To navigate beneath this haze

Of soft and softer secret names

That nightly nature must reclaim

Please welcome to the Page...
the wonderful BRIAN GRANGER!