The Glesga Effect by Bobbi Thomson

I don’t come fae the right side a Glesga.
Where shoaping is wheeled an’ needs mare than wan bag,
maws and das still share a hoose, an’
yer wee sister doesny huv tae wake ye up to make sure ye take yir tablets.

I come fae smashed windaes,
an’ streets that uhr serenaded wi blades,
a green versus blue warzone.
The fluorescent scribbles a troubled youth marking thur territory,
an’ stawning guard ‘er powdered hawnshakes.

The end a’ the tunnel’s light veiled by hingin’ trainers,
‘n hope as high is paper planes,
stuck in dreich fog that doesny lift.
People lit me uhr the thorns thit turn the Clyde rid,
the dirt under fingernails,
the stain a society.

Silent juries cast verdicts wae their eyes,
yer guilty fur wearing the captain’s airmband regardless,
‘n yer pronouns uhr a slur,
this Big Issue’s the cone on tap a’ oor need for change, mate.
Ma mind’s a stain gless boattle a tonic,
fragile and beautiful when the light comes in, but
the sun covers its eyes every time a speak.

So, I just stoaped speaking aw the gither.

Illustration by Laura Darling