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Poem from Wapping

That inky black nights memory floats
Memories float in black ink from a night, their buoyancy fades with time
Piss coloured crystals that we ate like treats.
Replaced our blood with brown sugared liquid it tingled as the fizz filled us.
Now we feel at one with our glass - greasy and half full with amber energise, swirling in vodka.
Max was there, he's pretty.
The rush was good but the night is faded now like the big lip an overactive jaw administered me.
Ah, someone danced. It wasn't me though. Shame.
"Aye, in a minute" I said. I sat.
Tomorrow I'll cry at a film with a tragic cartoon dog. And lie, all day in the sun.

Poem from the Lighthouse

To try to feel as another in the line of fire, they
under the pressure of my white mans boots,
they bleed emotion, and their heads make my shoes rub
longing to feel as they, unable to perceive
consistent battles rage on as I glide over high in a sympathy of clouds,
longing to understand but always wrong in assumption of the trouble
to see as they but they see double
the hardest struggle
is not mine nor any me the same
compassion and pity
can't help alone

Poem from the by Clyde

The light injects the water bright with swords
Flickering and disapearing into our everything 
The light flies flags of white and they dance on the hills of the river
Invisible lines cast in a sphere here, rummaging below to give life and warmth. 
I love her too much and necess to be with her as wonderful company.
But  childish men can't enjoy independence of others - just now.
But we will. Men are beautiful and so they want to be near -
with a fast red getaway car
To one side with all our shielding impulses and we can be together. Whenever it happens.
Relinquish the urgency.
Men have arms, mostly, and the arms of men  inspire thoughts of the arms of men,
in a tshirt.
The light will shimmer and bounce and we'll both be there watching.
If we both are there. 

Poema En Glasgow

Yo Quiero hablar, hablando
en mi nuevo idioma favorito
pero mi tiempo no es elastico con mi vivo artistico
pero puedo soñar de elocuencia
pero los preguntas, parablas estas ausencia
¿esta me incompetencia?
esta el sociedad capitalista
forzando mi manos trabajar
cuando esta mejor para estas crear
su posible debemos negociar
y continuar

Poem in Gracia

Kennie's no weel kent ye ken
but if Kennie spent wit he spent on being kent ye ken Kennie's time weel spent
wid huv him kent an we'd aw ken Kennie. ken?

Poem on a Hill 2016

See when the skies aw pink and blue and yella – I really cannae hink o anything I’d rather look at. There’s bottles chinkin a hunner miles away and the birds proudly sing their goodnight babies to their lovers. The black swiggly trees twirl like cast iron bent over the sky – they’ll be green soon – and equally captivating. I like wondering aboot with Finnula. I like dancing with Jahvel and drinking four cups of coffee with my mum and interpupting each other and forgetting what we’re talking about. And staring at the gradually dimming sky ‘cause it’s the most wonderful thing I can think of. I like getting really really really high with the kindest people in life and dancing and not listening to their stories about their childhoods because I have something really boring to say about mine. It’s nice. The distant guitar playing reminds me of my brothers and uncles and dad and their songs and joking. I like smiling at strangers in public because they’re kind. A young shop man gave me his pen ‘cause I had to write this. But now some guy is trying to cruise me in the park so I might leave It’s a wee bit cold now anyway . The sky though... Seagulls get a bad rep, I think they’re awright but. I love the old stone buildings. They’re wonderful really. Such effort and grandure and the pink and blue an yellow sky . A dog called Suzie just walked by. I love dogs and the name Suzie. Suzie from the shop is dead nice. Her hairs a bit like Finnula's. The sky is like a painting of the sky but better. Its femininity reminds of the kindest kiss on oor cheek for now. The pink and blue and yella sky, forever.

Poem Unner Heilanman's Umbrella 2015

Like whirly rain is black an tarry, sliding doun a cheek – like the snaw that crashed intae the sea lea’in pare Mrs Polar bear strandit on her plinth... bless.
The awcolourt lichts breingin aboot aboond for aw wiys,
glitterin in sparklet puddles o treacle,
Steam an fog wid hav oor een blin –
they'd suffocat oor attempts tae fin - admonishing oor sights intae oor awe o glows,
in blue and rid blurs.
A rummly crash o’erheid howks oot a gutter on tae the gutties o a passer.
The soonds speak wae the mair than appreciative, warm bellie o the city that’s shivvern, manky and tar filt but here,
A'm fou o joy and wae big, doughie een, cannae help
but pure love it. Big mingin toun.



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Lewi Quinn BA (me) is an artist.


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