Stream of Unconsciousness - Red

There’s no hill on George Square on which to sing your murder ballads; no piper to commemorate your passing; not enough flags to mark all the stains of your blood.

Serpents tempt you; merchants, gentlemen prevent you and always the carpet of your blood will stain this horizon.

Genially you will prevent the transgressions into your own life, blot out the pain and misery, and ignore the unwanted children clogging up the Clyde from the Second World War. The stories of your children’s children’s violence will be merely spots on newsprint, taunting, telling, devalued by a face you soon forget.

This is the abortion song, the claim of right to your forgotten memories. The sad tales of heroism and heartache had only been forgotten because of shame and ill-kempt storyteller’s beer glasses crashing on the floor.

They wrapped you up tight in ships, sailing to Australia to be eternally forgotten. However, you, a few, made it home. A few of you would not forget.

Some of you would preach to the stars like some entranced and enchanted political preacher. You were all your heroes, unparalleled and unconquerable. You were all your misfits rejected and repented.

It is the pulsing in your own subconscious, the Neolithic anger you maintain is your given right…

It survived, it seems, somehow… despite the conjecture of intellectuals. In spite of “what he meant to say was,” and “so I said.” Maybe someone should try to climb one of these hills, rather than constantly building new ones. Maybe someone should take the small hills and create a giant pyramid with an eye in it.