I Wish Scotland Was Real by Cameron Wilson by electricfrog.press

I Wish Scotland Was Real Cameron Wilson

Someone in Scotland made a picture Which was so full of feeling That they had to destroy it at once. - Margaret Tait

Part 1

St Andrew’s Day Speech Could I but scribe tomorrow’s great masterpiece in Drug Death Prevention Legislation – what’s he that wishes so? My comrade, my past-time saviour! For in Glasgow, there’s nothing so becomes a Scot as modest death and misery. For if we are mark’d to overdose, we are enow to do our country loss. And if to live, if to love and write, and survive, the fewer men, the greater share of shame. What of God’s will? I pray thee, kill not one man more. I am not covetous of Valium, street nor otherwise. But if it be a sin to covet recovery, to covet survival and resilience in the face of callous disregard and time eroded – I am the most offending soul alive. But this proposal has met with opposition from the Scottish Police Federation, with vicechair David Hamilton shocking campaigners with claims that saving lives is not a “statutory function … Our statutory duty is to protect lives, not save lives.” No, faith, my fellow, wish not a police officer from Scotland: God’s peace! O, do not wish one more! He which hath no shame, let him depart. We would not overdose in that scum’s company that fears his fellowship to survive with us. This day is called the Feast of Andrew. He that outlives this day and survives this drug, will yearly on this vigil feast his fellows and say “I am one of thirteen hundred:” then he will strip his sleeves and show his tracks, and say “these wounds I survived on St. Andrew’s Day.”

The Argyll Arms Violently spluttered through foams of bitter– “…So, in some cosmic, ironic operation, her majesty’s navy left they poor Spanish boys floatin’ in Hebridean water, the poor auld Scot drowned in lang-sufferin’ neurosis, and fier comme un Écossais, we gret into a plate of mince and Bovril, bickerin’ over who’s valour got took, and who took it. Aye, we’re like a Caledonian Jack Ruby, thrice removed frae the true origin of our sick superiority:” A sip of foam– “frame wan o’ the Zapruder Rose! Heid intact, but forever condemned tae be hinged tae the rotten diptych that is this scabbit, kirk-reekit sile. And we sup from yon primordial cullen skink, brewed immense an’ dreidfu’ by ig-drah-sill; sticks hatesome in wir hause; an’ noo we’re stuck scrubbin’ Finnan haddie oot o’ wool, prayin’ that the Great John Maclean comes back tae Dallas for wan mair chance at real material freedom…” And, standing, with a grin– “For wha o’s ha’e the thistle’s poo’er To see we’re worthless and believe ‘t?”

Why I Am Not Working on a Painting for My Wife For instance, I am starting a painting. Sir Edwin Landseer drops in. He looks up. It’s like Monarch of The Glen all fucked up, and not painted by an Englishman– Rembrandt’s carcasse with more blood, less memento mori, more memento locum tuum. Bacon’s figure but I understand how he feels, witnessing the bisection of a splayed noble stag. It’s shotgun holes in a biscuit tin, bits of shortbread blasted to crumbs by land-ownership and passive income. It’s a piss-stained mural on the underside of a bothy, where I can afford three nights and a breakfast in Skye. It’s massive and displaces Highland Scots better than a landlord ever could. It’s called Àrd-fhlath den Gleann, so no one knows what it’s called. “You have Gaelic in it.” Yes, Edwin, I needed something there. I am just a child trying to prove his worth. But a child couldn’t possibly have painted this, in the way that God couldn’t possibly sin. God remains omnipotent, and I remain a child. If a man is a monarch stag, he has sixteen-point antlers. Landseer’s painting is in the National Gallery. It’s worth four million pounds, the stag is whole, and it's only got twelve-point antlers. Maybe the Kelvingrove gallery will buy mine. Maybe Glasgow Council will sell it to settle their equal pay dispute. They’ll bulldoze it to make a road. It’s proving points that I needed proving; that I am a real poet. “Where’s the Gaelic?” Elbow deep in paint, I decided it was too much. The stag demands to know what I believe, and how I behave in light of those beliefs.

What Ever Happened to the Apocalyptic New Religious Movement The Branch Davidians? One of the men, David Koresh, quite unpopular nowadays, slumped in his anorak, and pondered The pub was smoky and quiet Eden was on Bridge Street and Waco had become indigestion Great heavens, but he liked the sound of the puggies behind him punishing men for their gall, and a lukewarm pint of Best to quell the sounds of teargas and gunshots Yet inwardly longing, longing for the advent of Christ And he sat there, slumped in his woolly hat, pulled down over his brow And he felt in a very real sense how nothing stays the same And he realised that it was Saturday and the football would be on soon

This Is the Flower of the World

Blessed are the alcoholics who holy holy installed StarCraft on library computers and drank hand sanitiser from pump bottles, who sat beside radiators and watched MILF porn in public, who didn’t vote for any of this and live in means beyond their profession I am taking ticks of poison damage looking at uneven carpet, overpriced buses, lung cancer leaflets, a Maserati, charity shop polo shirts, conference proceedings, eternity-laden pot-holes, five-hundred bananas, step 4 paperwork, fear sheets, accomplished bodies, synthetic Scots, structured rhymes, Rocky IV, the rapid and terrifying loss of minutes, and my phone and listening to beeping, sobbing, Kanye West, arrhythmia, destruction of furniture, radiators, interference, incorrect Gaelic, gagging, choking, vomiting, pinging, interruptions, the Hearthstone soundtrack, Paulie, advice, my cat, keyboards, and the voice of God For nicotine gum, patches, and gum patches give me a polite nod as I leave the pharmacy and I return a wink because I am deep in psychosis I Love Scotland My Favourite Country Love Everything About It You and Me And Everyone Else I Wish Scotland Was Real Not Just My Imagination But God Is the Boss And I am Just A Scot I am a multidisciplinary savant. I am annoying. I am a communist. I am normal. I am a child of God. I realise shuddering these thoughts are not cataloguing council tax debt light rain precarity or the printed word

And they confiscated my phone at the entrance to Elysium at which point I took up soap carving and pre-marital sex and now I can’t go to the park without thinking about my wife My sponsor tells me that there is more to writing than obscuring meaning and plagiarism Now, I hesitate to use The Thistle, but it’s just so thorny and robust when displaced by tarmac and a hundred forms of fear selfishness, and self-seeking.

Part 2

Dia Dhut Tonight, the Clyde is drowning there’s nothing outside but water hello, good water it was just the three of us tonight we forgot to turn the light on so he couldn’t look us in the eye when he called his wife a bitch and drank it’s a shame we would have understood and smiled that’s just black water in your glass

A True Caledonian Rockface is enteecinly braw, an’ aiblins e’en saft in its ain hershness sae why does the Scot heave himsel aff o’ craigs intae skerries? an’ wash the bluid oot his bludgeoned claggie brou, just tae feel less than?

A Very Sad Man Looks at the Thistle Does the wather no’ feel mair Scotch when it’s thin an’ sair? Will ye feel Scottish when yer deid an’ cover’t heid tae tae in freest - in yer ain hoose? Dè mu dheidhinn a-nis? A bheil thu a’ faireachdainn Albannach an-dràsta? Fuck you cunt, die in the cold Aye it’s gey an’ hard wark bein’ this cauld

Surviving Home in despair I eat thousands of pounds worth of electricity with my bare hands until I hit the price cap shovelling salt water mussels into my gas meter because they’re so sustainable and actually really good for the ocean or whatever now I’ve turned my front room into some kind of temporal super quarry using an intricate system of pistons, suction cups and overtime; this means my cat won’t go hungry and god willing I can build a large house out of money

Know What I Mean why not twice a week why not buy a fucking big eclair cause the community centre’s shut due to a person being struck by a train slow down he said you’re going to hit that somebody’s brother just out the jail there he said I had 4 year clean just there he said