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