Hiding true feelings. Mask of red slipping. True emotion pours out like bright red birds from her soul. Keep up the mask, don’t let it slip. Don’t let them see the soul but how could she hide something so beautiful?

Let them fly, birds of the soul…


‘She was something of a legend over on West Hollywood. It was well known that her skills lay in predicting the future through chipped china teacups. If she liked you…

You entered her small 1930’s bungalow, past golden gilded Indian statues that stared with expressions of wonder and helpless awe. She would glide through to greet you with the haughty air of a forgotten Hollywood diva. She was breathtaking in her beauty, dark crimson lips set off by the blackest of curls. It was rumoured that she took the souls of men that she loved and encased them in gold gilt statutes, forever to admire her, forever to love her. Every man who entered her lair forgot about the rumour as soon as they stared into her dark eyes of seduction.

Beware the West Hollywood It Girl. She may tell you your fortune. Or take your soul for eternity. Her choice. Never yours.”




Edinburgh was bitter today, windy and cold,

I went for a walk, threw on a hat black and bold


I didnae realize that the thing on my head

Was a black balaclava, pure rebel wool thread


I marched up to town, battled through tourists,

Came to the Tolbooth, where the street is the jurist


I used to be good, used to be so quiet,

Now, I want to start a fucking street riot.


When walking old streets in soft balaclava,

Beware the rebels of the city of lava.


We might not see ghosts of our ancient city,

But you will feel their cold grief and sad lonely pity.


If closes could talk and walls could speak,

The tales of Auld Reekie the stones would shriek.



An artist gives (not sells) an artwork to a bourgeoisie gallery,

They have no income, no fancy salary.


The bourgeoisie gallery sells it on to a bourgeoisie buyer,

Who keeps it in a safe, makes the price go higher.


They dole out the cash to the grateful artist,

‘We’ve taken our cut, we know best, We’re the smartest.

Do a few more; keep them large and rare,

Cause we’re taking them all to the latest art fair.”


The bourgeoisie gallery turns up in London or Basel,

Everyone trying to act uber posh casual,

“This guys the thing, the latest trend,

For you, we will make the tax rules bend.”


“Give us your cash, we don’t care where it’s from,

We will sell you some art. We will all make a bomb.”


We have sold our souls to the highest bidders,

When all art becomes a series of figures.

Bourgeoisie art for bourgeoisie sake,

Is making the art market totally fake.


Get out of my studio,

I cry and wail,

Art is my soul,

And it’s not for sale.




jeff koonssmall.jpg


Some poems woke me up tonight,

Threw stones at my soul, filled the room with light.


A group of hoodlums, they looked hard and cool,

A few stepped forward, “we are the words that rule.”


“You never listen, you never write!”

(He was the loudest, gave me a fright).


“I’m not a poet. It’s not my thing”

My feeble excuse has a hollow ring.


A small hoodie jumped in front of the others,

“I might be smaller than my brothers,

But Ive been through the mill.

My story in your book, you need to fill.”


Wincing at her bad sentence construction,

I could still sense her sad story seduction.


They loomed in further, 3am shadows dark,

A gang of words, ready to leave a mark.


“Ok, ok. I’ll give it a go.

But please let me sleep now,

Ive had enough of your show.


They back off then, something in my voice,

Smirking at me, they knew I had no choice.


Be careful of wishing for words before sleep,

For, at 3am, into your room they will creep.