Playing War on Cramond Island

On eve of covert camp erection

we crawled through the grass hysterical nude

uttered my god at distended base

and resurrected vestige bowels.

Caught on Cramond Island swept

by inert tides our land bridge ho

a barnacled plank like M6

road and roundabouts became an ocean shelf.

The dead fort night communed in relics

of postwar postwar talk like

troublous vinyl amyls topped off—

we writhed and read the feel good.

We read and wrote a sodium sea.

Gwenthyan Hawkins was walking yawp

incognito were Whitman’s bastards spawned in hollow
fall-out shelters imbibing

in doorjambs beneath the litany fucking

fumbling through The Complete Works crusty virgins

lusting penetration

cracked grousing supplication

venomous electroshock desire of

independent inner thigh.

Holy moth warrior splits a bayonet

at my right round flesh and flank

the disparate armies of intellegensia

a page a blade a moan or two. (poets and generals long forgotten).

Into the night post academic

regarded blocks of sky like temporal

plums and fairytale nostalgic whispered first

yawp

giggled ecstatic and spoke indifferent

yawp

Saw all the lights were out in kit and shelters

climbed on the Captain’s quarters reached barefoot

for that sweet snatch of sky bellowed

YAWP!

into the Caledonian night.