In Which I Use Bad Words


Descriptive word.

Outside of Glasgow, almost always offensive. 

Inside it’s walls, it depends. 

Consistently conflated 

with mad, sound, other descriptive terms. 

Tam there’s a stingy cunt, but see his bird? 

Soundest cunt I ever met. 

It’s a Scottish thing, 

I think. 

Turning insults on their head, twisting ‘pal’ to sound aggressive cause see

its all about the tone. 

All about the emotion. 

We produce so many stellar poets, cause partially

it’s in our bones. 

The sound of trees means almost nothing

unless you’ve felt it on your cheek, in your skin, 

and I love yous fall flat without emotion. 

We work behind the words.

Painting bright reds on sunsets and life into the stones.

But knowing the darker things too. 

Until you have been so lonely

as to relish the touch of a cashier

as she passes you your one pence change,

you cannot taste the ash on your tongue,

cannot know

that bittersweet silence between I miss you and goodbye. 

So cunt 

seems like the lesser of two evils,

cause I’d rather be all bar fight than teary eyed, 

rather feel blood than nothing. 
See, it’s all about

the context,

you beautiful bunch of bastards.


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