You haughty bastard;
With your blood and guts
and talking cats
Your passive aggressive street dance
– I’ve had friendlier muggings –
With your indescribably pisspoor parochialism,
With your describably pisspoor pakora
With your many closed arts venues.
Home of the education of Tony Blair.
Don’t you fucking make me microcosmic
With your Hobbes-nobbing Leviathan shit.
Take your lips off your genitals when I am
talking to you Edinburgh.
Take your culture and deposit it in Methil
Then begin again.
I dare you.
Yes, ignoring the fact that relatively speaking
Athens is in the North,
You are the name you claim:
A financially depraved hellhole trading
Off its former glories
(Though with more serial
Killer-themed walking tours than
Yes, Edinburgh, you are beautiful,
As a Monarchy of Ice
You are aloof and seem distant
Even to those who are inside you.
It is not enigmatic, Edinburgh.
It is rude.
But yes, this is the part of the poem
Where I change tone
And dovetail, wonderful,
Into your many redeeming qualities.
This poem is over.