Theason's bleatings

Time to dither, hither and thither, step outside,
forget the ride through decadent streets and sleet-blown alleys,
so much rhyme and reason, it's almost out of season but the urgency pushes on, round the corner of the cliff, 
as stiff as a dyke's beak, liberating, stipulating, triangulating our movements by GPS, 
and the goddess of Scottish literacy, a thoroughbred with broken capillary cheeks, reeking of peat-smoked whisky tries to hide from the wide angle lens of surveillance.

Everything is filmed, nothing seen, the camera rolls, on and on, never stops, until then – you know, that moment.

Those that I loved lived here and are no more, does this shoreline even know it? How can I define it, reach a plateau, for a rest, the right of egress… 

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