Titan Titanesses lay to sleep on the breast of their mother; foreign heat burns and melts stony flesh to river run and freeze in slopes like highland homes mounted on the hips of not-dead things, but trapped beneath their own grass stone moss tree skin. Burst, no, ascend from mountain slumbers and howl with unbleached bone intent. Pursue blue mist rain clouds and follow artificial asphalt arteries in steel rubber bubbles, middle-class mention the rain with flatcap/hoodie/umbrella/coat. Close and turn to face the sky, and breathe in the breathing corpse-stink of nationalism, stretched out along impossible snaking roads, left and right of water-logged potholes – a highway to the ‘Heart’.

Like tourists, like we are; patronising snapshot colonialists. Pictures of high freeways and free highways and lives in highway definition/living imagery. Oh, and I thought my accent sandpaper! Flat-faced creatures creature growl gesture at high-street stores and repeat their names like curse devotees. The death of romance town Scotland, I feared, in favour of Oxfam Books and copies of Irish-Liverpudlian poets who avoid rhyming schemes like some bourgeois affectation. Speak of burning bushes and fraternities and baking hot sands and scold the west country for its jagged people and ramrod peaks; speak, too, of Lady Chatterley’s Lover, as though he had some relevance. Mention, too, how quaint our cabins, sulking riverside littered with children’s toys and canoes and the dreams of office working holiday makers. Lower our water hands, water-taste its freshness. Truth. Working-life electrified/chains of paralysis, paralytic freedom. Breathe in Scottish myth mist breath, taste foreign skies’ fallacy of rain. At home red-string wire strangles strong lines of piss-yellow paint that likens to a seamstress’ handiwork on the sidewalk. Against Scottish oak, pygmied trees like aspidistras garrotted by gargolyc wires which weakly flicker into light low LEDs. This choking-hazard ravaged society; suffocation in council tenancies’ subsidised housing and metaphors of suffocation in private properties with electric cookers and water heating across the road from a burst pipe.The streets of Stirling; tickle each other’s feet to laughter-scowls. Asian-scottish/scottish-asians clutch second-hand books to their breasts and break the hearts of passers-by. Who has hearts left after Falkirk?

A recovering alcoholic book selling heroine reads Dante’s Inferno in a Bernard Black bookshop beneath a bookies’ alcohol-heroin business plan. Bannockburn Wallace Bruce; no woman holds her flesh and blood in hatred. Guilty pretend to proud Celtic origins, through wild hair and pale skinned love of the rain by crackling fireside breeze; share a whiskey or a wine with T.S. Hemingway and Utopia fascist liberalism, Antiques take their show to the road, like living Kerouac furniture in dead cars and who can care for walk-in children’s baths, Egyptian goddess fear-mongers’ hydraulic guarantees when there are women such as these thriving, living, breathing in Wallace’s wake, in the shade of Titanesses, but not in the shade of Titans.

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