Poetry Map of Scotland: poem no. 326

The Barras

This college land is some skin job hallucination.
Bright lights that white was shite,
Glasgow swallowed the red pill
and will cough it up come Sunday.

I trod on floorboards last night.
Counted ceiling stars a twinkling
in the ballroom night.

I shared a roller disco with Rock Gods
and serial killers alike.
Washed them down to Rebel Tunes
in a dying marketplace.

Head held high I think of her.
How she said we shared a cityscape.
How she writes about Mark Twain
while I talk about life, mate.

She chose to be here
when all I can do is stay. 

Victoria McNulty

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