by Molly MacLean
Watchin you piss, an artist after all,
behind cars an doon alleyways an am desperate to get it oot
but ah dont have a cock, better keep it in ah suppose, ah mean
a can drink a pint just as well an ah did, a just cannah let it oot
in the same way, buh its ah aboot mindset he says to me while
holding his cock, how the fuck is it aw aboot mindset, ah dont
have a cock so ah canny do it in the middle of the street, ah
canny just let it oot publicly like aw these singers an poets an
drunks an dogs an doctors an whatever the fuck else they hink
they might be trying ta be wi their cocks in hand, theyd see
right up ma arse and ahd be done for perversity an indecent
exposure, a madwoman theyd say, an maybe nice legs, an
maybe profanity if ah managed t piss alphabets buh ah canny
piss alphabets or even really use um the same because ah dont
have a cock, wits wrang wi an arse and a gash anyway? Am tryn
t write but am in Brittany and je ne parle pas, pas du tout an
am pure burstin for a pish an its cold an its rainin and av run
oot o cigarettes passing em t Sodom and Gomorrah over here
wi their songs and verses. We are besides the castle buh is no
really a castle becus a castle would surely have a fuckin toilet
buh definitely wouldny let a woman piss in its courtyard and
by fuck ah want to. Ah just need to get something oot but am
tongue tied and full o pish and ah hink av just aboot had it
upta here when ah hear masel saying in ma Da’s voice- fucking
come on woman, ah always hated that buh today its doin the
job, a have no pen nor do a have a pot to piss in or a word in
bastardin edgeways at this philosoûl roundtable in the middle
of the rue du saint something or other an as we start to move
along the harbour wall past a haunted filets bleus of harem
pants an sixty quid sandals an on towards another bar a old
fuckers drinking diabolos brighter than the sea an puffing away
beneath their caps, you dart away te get your cock oot again
and ah canny take much more. Tha beach is empty noo an
there ar high rocks, only a wonky seagull an a moon that cant
for the life o it break through the mist an spray that are there
t see me. Peelin sodden jeans from ma thin achin thighs a let
masel pish doon oer the rocks, the cracks filling and sediment
swelling, marking on the granite a dark blue delta, feels good
man, wipe wi an ol handkerchief an smear something offgreen
from me on the rock. Ah head back t the harbour road without
looking at the sea an diggin ma toe in the sand ah nearly sketch
a word buh the pints are working and ahl no doot need t piss
again before the next place so ah dont stop and leave only
scuffs and footsteps.
