This poem is not going to be typical of me

There will be no mystery to it at all

No dreams no journeys no friends

Nothing at all this is an empty poem

I am sitting on the platform

At Corrour Railway Station

It is fucking cold so fucking cold

I am on the run again as I have fucked up

Never revisit the scene of your crime

Even if you have not committed a crime

The cops are chasing me so I might stay here

There are plenty of places to hide or freeze

I stole a bag on the train earlier and it contained

A hiking jacket (blue) cereal bars (dozens)

Spare boots (too small) and female underwear (used)

Letters to Alice Letters to Anne

Two custard mags (one used I have not checked the other)

Five cycling club tee shirts (new) and a photograph of Meryl Streep (odd)

I admire you Gordon McCready and this might even grow into love

Your property will be left on a future train minus the jacket

I know that you will understand

You are not going to believe what I am accused of

Murder (nah) Drugs (nah) Robbery (nah) Anything Else (nah)

It is so surreal and a million miles away from Corrour

I am accused of being an active member of the Weather Underground

Jesus Fucking Christ I was only five at the time of 18 West 11th Street

So that is it here I am writing this awful poem on a bleak Highland day

It is far removed from my normal work but I suppose it deserves to be written

The cops are likely to be on the next train and I can hear sirens in the distance

(why do you need fucking sirens just send me a text you dim cunts)

Hopefully I will finish this poem

Before they start shooting

I am not armed

Just a little wet

I am a lost poet

You will take me alive

Choose Life Choose Poetry