O little Life
In which Daith guises and deceives itsel’,
Joy that mak’s Grief a Janus,
Hope that is Despair’s fause-face,
And Guid and Ill that are the same,
Save as the chance licht fa’s!

And yet the licht is there,
Whether frae within or frae withoot.
The conscious Dark can use it, dazzled nor deceived.
The licht is there, and th’ instinct for it,
Pairt o’ the Dark and o’ the need to guise,
To deceive and be deceived,
But let us then be undeceived
When we deceive,
When we deceive oorsels.
Let us enjoy deceit, this instinct in us.
Licht cheenges naething,
And gin there is a God wha made the licht
We are adapted to receive,
He cheenged naething,
And hesna kythed Hissel!
Save in this licht that fa’s whaur the Auld Nicht was,
Showin’ naething that the Darkness didna hide,
And gin it shows a pairt o’ that
Confoondin’ mair than it confides
Ev’n in that.

The epileptic thistle twitches
(A trick o’ wund or mune or een—or whisky).
A brain laid bare,
A nervous system,
The skeleton wi’ which men labour
And bring to life in Daith
—I, risen frae the deid, ha’e seen
My deid man’s eunuch offspring.
—The licht frae bare banes whitening evermair,
Frae twitchin’ nerves thrawn aff,
Frae nakit thocht,
Works in the Darkness like a fell disease,
A hungry acid and a cancer,
Disease o’ Daith-in-Life and Life-in-Daith.

O for a root in some untroubled soil,
Some cauld soil ’yont this fevered warld,
That ’ud draw darkness frae a virgin source,
And send it slow and easefu’ through my veins,
Release the tension o’ my grisly leafs,
Withdraw my endless spikes,
Move coonter to the force in me that hauds
Me raxed and rigid and ridiculous
—And let my roses drap
Like punctured ba’s that at a Fair
Fa’ frae the loupin’ jet!
—Water again!…

 

from A Drunk Man Looks at Throbbing Thistle