In my skull the weather is wet.
Dogs shake themselves
and roll on Persian carpets. My brains
expand and float, dip and sink.
My birds dive and spear
small fish which land and flap.
I’ve swiped my card
through the dispensary slot
and am handed a paper bag
containing boiled eggs and a glass of milk.
I wait to be excluded
and oak branches snap when I sneeze.
I’ve wiped and flushed
and washed my hands of it all.
I scrape the hair from my face
and pray for rain. Never around
when you need it. All my notices
I’ve laid my bets
and accumulated stains on my character,
while the men here spit on the ground
and the women walk quickly, as if in the dark.
There’s a swastika painted on the pharmacy wall
and it's Happy Hour again.
GARRY VASS lives in Scotland, where he works and writes and does lots of other more inconsequential stuff. He's been an archaeologist, an academic, a teacher, an office worker and an idler of many years' standing.
READ AND LISTEN
Issue 6 Playlist