Swallow The Pill, this poem by Michael Pedersen explains him as good as any introduction we can scribe – but he runs Neu Reekie! the Scottish-borne spoken word night with Kevin Williamson, who founded Rebel Inc! the first home of Irvine Welsh’s writing, and Alan Warner, Laura Hird and John King. He’s top class live performer, and we like him.
I come fae ma Da, aw Danish ginger
brain’n’bristle, fair fire in’em, I’ve felt
that scorch, we’re fichters – fur good
and bad; him being maire auld fashioned
aboot smoking and shagging but me
kindae gettin that. I come fae ma Ma,
giddy-daft fur watching ‘hings grow:
flooers, fruit n’veg, sun in sky, butter
-flies in oor bellies we didnae talk aboot.
I come fae Scotland – took me years tae
cheer, years and thoosands miles – doon
Durham and Nottingham, London, Cambodia,
maire, then hame. I come fae ma Gran, wee
Jessie Lee that a’wis caws herself stupit, who’s
roseate smile and humble biscuit face is
any’hing but – aye she got tricked into
voting UKIP by a wily gadgie that chapped
her door, but we’ll get him guid. I come
fae aw them books I’ve read, no the ones
ah pretended tae trying no tae lose
face at Law School. I come fae losing
face, then getting ower it, fae heartbreak
and battling failed romances wi peev
and drugs; I come fae been a lawyer
doon sooth, then even better, chucking
it in, come fae that smug eton cunt
caw’in me Jock, smelly sock
in a board meeting, then asking if I was
from the Gorbals. I come fae no
smacking him around the coupon wi ma
cock afore answering meekly, naw,
that’s in Glasgow. Fuck me, I’m coming
UP in a big way and, lassie,
I’m cumin fur you.
Here’s another (online) exclusive:
Euan in Damnation
a frightful morning with no clear-cut
indicator of what worry awaits.
Amsterdam is awake, it’s raining,
Anne Lennox’s ‘No More I Love You’s’
beats in its ears, houseboats bob
in line, in sync, buildings lean
inwards, peering down from above,
caped like wicked counts. People fill
the streets: pale jackets, colourful
umbrellas crown sunken heads.
It’s many cities really, pain
on some of the faces, yawns,
smiles, bowler hats and tattoos,
sharp bursts of apology
if they accidentally touch. Then
he hears it, amidst bicycle tyres
crackling to a close and conversations
charting love and lies and chances
lost, stolen or still to be taken.
He hears it and he first thinks what
a strange way to greet a man.
A galvanic thrust in his frowning ribs,
mouths awwww naw, he must mean me.
Euan’s glance lifts-up off his shoelaces,
over the canal, arriving on a dark
bearded man, in a thick leather
waistcoat; copper wraps twist
around his wrists, a metallic rasp
off his gold teeth as he sneers
Heeeey! Hey pervert!
I remember you from last night.
A reeeeeeeal pervert. Say, you
wanna see the butt-fucking dwarves?
Anchored, stock-still, Euan’s pink
lips frame the words, which slop
more than bounce then drown
in the gutter: I…..I….I…..
noooooooooooo, a faint wobble,
a tilt of head. The crowd purring,
jeering around him; the rain stops,
hushing the canals, stifling
wind. Euan shuffles, turns
away, begins to walk again.
Over his shoulder, the man
concludes this sermon: Oooooh
I forgot, English right?!
No sex on Sunday.
Annex Lennox resumes her song:
No more I Love You’s
The language is leaving me.
To read more of original and exclusive work from Michael Pedersen, you can purchase a full copy in select shops or in our online store.