Angus McHaggis' Scottish Set

Poems written over a week in Scotland. Hoots mon!



Near the end, good god man, Nearly all and sundry went feeding The last lazy licks of the flame; Newspapers, napkins, Failed poems crossed out then torn From their bindings;

A Mind Reader Once

A mind reader once turned his powers against himself and saw God's strobing eye in the feedback loop, glassy like a porthole and gazing at nothing specific. Next he saw a cherry tree


When the generic businessman lifts His phone to his ear His silver cufflink – One of a pair he received on Securing the Lyon contract – Clips the light and sends A sharp spark

I Am Still Here

It's like that story about the man trapped down the well - the children found him but they would not go for help. There is no moral to the story; the kids' paralysis and the adult unable


So he approximates neurosis for the cameras but offset he's congruent as a set of satellite blueprints. It's just mind tourism, the flirting with thought-walks


Sasha has wasted most of her youth Trying to be amazed by flight. Yes, when the jet engines bite She feels a pressure in her crotch As if she needs to wee But there’s none of the rapture
Gold cherry

To My First Love

Dear Girl who I fancied when I was eighteen I am glad you did not sleep with me. I think our orgasms would have been sub-par. I imagine you at climax Breaking sweat and gurning


Given time, they say, Water can wear down mountains, Give it time, goes the cry, And it can rub the Queen’s face off a penny. Up in the highlands The fog clung in marbles to the thick weave


You ask for the crown jewels Which seems excessive but I’m not in a position to argue. After all, I did promise I’d Clear the lower half of the garden This afternoon and you came home


She peeks over her spectacles Like a vexed librarian But this is no library And I am no inconsiderate reader. She does not vocalise her complaint But I assume it is something to do


He rode on the roof-rack flinging rocks at road signs: Take this Darlington! Up yours Chipping Sodbury! Always a slow overarm stroke Like a spin bowler –

We're The Very Best At Being Bad

Flicking off lollypop ladies We rattle full-clap down rampart high streets. What d’you mean turn down my music? I’ll listen to Leonard Cohen any volume I feel comfortable with,

Getting In Touch

With your inner gibbon; Come on, chaps! Bruce knocks Down the flipchart and Lickety-split he’s Scramble-loping through the hall That links Deaths to Home Eek-acking some Congo call

Erasmus Wept

When Erasmus wept We made our excuses and left The room, then came back One by one to ask: Are you okay? Would you like to talk about it? Come on, mate – you’ll be all right. Back slap

The Devils

Shrewd old crow Was Ma Haggerty. What she didn’t know about Sexual virtuosity you could’ve scrawled On the inverse of a clitoris With a wedge-nibbed marker.