Gertie an Albert

by Kevin Cormack

If we say hid is, hid is, that’s hid. No bigsiniss,
jist belief. Afore the words even catch up wae ye.
No trauma tongue, blackened speech bubble
in the blood-brick mooth o Magnus.
No prayers, like half-shut knives,
at the waddeen o these twa ruined palaces.

Violence will oot, best be in the driveen saet.
Wur acrylic crotches, like CCTV, constrict
aroond unholy watters…
I live fur these days!
Kirks, palaces, claes, kers — bae the time
yir truly comfortable, yir faalan apaert.

Her.  

Aal else is blur.

Bit revenge wis the engine, I doot, no love.
Whit differ dis hid mak noo?
Streetlights, like vicars, swept thum oot the oil-
rainbowed road tae the last substation,
lipsticked wae thir initials, oan the edge
o vast country darkness, an the deadly ambush.

_
bigsiniss  arrogance
claes  clothes