Tae a Sex-Toy or, Scotland can gae fuck hitsel by Harry Giles

Tae a Sex-Toy by Harry Giles was first published in Gutter 14 as part of our Spoken Word Issue. You can listen to it here:

 

Tae a Sex-Toy
or, Scotland can gae fuck hitsel

Wee sleekit, tirlin, purpie buttplug!
Come here n gie yer yampish slutbug
a keek at hou, like ony fuckdrug
        ye cheenge wir warlds.
Come in, faw til: wi doucest nut-tug,
        wir tale unfurls…

O buttplug, whan ye’re in ma rectum
A’m plucked as true as string bi plectrum,
baith corp n pith as an electron’s
        baith pynt n wave;
ye appen up a pleisur spectrum;
        ye mak us crave

a life whaur aw o thaim wi prostates
or ither glands whit want an onwait,
whas langsome sex-lives anely frustrate
        thair carnal needs
hae easins appened tae bullets, cock-mates
        n anal beads.

For trowe ye nou, for aw that sex is
but wan ploy in the offensive
for liberation o wir feckless
        fair fowk n planet,
hit’s swank, hit’s snell, hit’s that infectious
        scads canna staund it.

Wad that wir heroes haed yer glamour!
Gin Rab the Bruce n Ed the Haimer
had kent hou ye’d reduce tae stammers
        the gabsie makar,
wad than wir nation yet be daumert?
        wir history knackered?

Sae pictur nou gin Willy Wallace,
a laird as macho as wis gallus,
teuk as his ettle no the phallus
        o swuird set swingin,
but insteid a puckered anus
        aw ripe fer rimmin.

Haed Wallace just haed ye, vibrator,
tae gie tae Langshanks steid o claymores,
wad than the baith o thaim haed catered
        tae the tither’s lust?
wad rose n thristle hae masturbated
        til baith war dust?

Or think agin, did Bonnie Charlie,
feartie feck, the wan wha hairdly
kent the fowk whit he sent chairgin
        whiles he wis leggin,
get the airsewark lacked sae sairly?
        Did Flora peg him?

We ken the Brave kent well submission,
but no wi safewords or that fission
o bed fae body in positions
        o hole surrender;
dear buttplug, wad ye tak the mission
        o New Pretender?

A’ve lost ma drift… Ma theory’s this:
that Scotland’s happit in manly myths
whit grieve fer aw whit’s lost, whit’s misst
        bi defeatit glory,
but a Scotland sheuk wi anal bliss
        is anither story.

An, tho the yarn’s mair fankelt yet,
whan homonationalism’s set
tae neutralise wir queerer threats
        tae queen n country,
whan creative agencies beget
        a salmagundi

o pink poond chasin fads n fashions,
makkan aw wir slaurie passions
nocht but capital, but cash-ins
        on rebel grief,
whan roond ma sex-toys is that ashen
        haund o deith,

in spite o aw they monolithic
forces reenged tae quell the mythic
pouer o duntin up yer rovick
        a godemiche
A’m sure wi anal play wir civic
        dwaum’s unleashed!

A ken that mair self-penetration
willnae really end aw nations,
or buttplugs spring th’emancipation
        o wir common weal,
but thay are pairt o the liberation
        fae deid ideals!

for tae ken yer anal passage
is tae win a better vantage
on the bonnie, quirkie marriage
        tween gie n tak,
tap n bottom, tent n ravage,
        free an brak.

Aye, whan A haud ye, buttplug purpie
as a thristle, A feel wirthy
o a nation doun n dirty
        wi buried treisur!
o a warld whit’s free! n thirsty
        fer filthy pleisur!

Sae, Jacobites n Forty-Fivers,
drap the Saltire, wheesht the piper,
wash yer haunds, relax yer tichter
        orifices
n let yer buttplugs be the drivers
        o aw wir wisses.

 

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