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Ian Stewart


Edinburgh, Scotland, UK

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Short biography of Ian Stewart

Born: 1964.

Attended Edinburgh University 1982-86.

Former punk and musician in the alternative music scene in Edinburgh.

Member of the Edinburgh Writing School, which includes Irvine Welsh, Paul Reekie and Duncan MacLean.

Has performed Poetry at the Edinburgh Festival Fringe and at various rock concerts since the mid-1980s.

Has been published in Carnival Magazine, Edinburgh University Student newspaper and other poetry publications.

If you have comments or suggestions for Ian Stewart, you can contact him or her at: (Ian Stewart )

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Unnatural Gifts


Ian Stewart

The glass coffin,
surfing soulfully on
the curls of spray,
bears the last message
of the lost
momentarily twitching
in the swaying rays
of the sun.

Here below,
boats with broken hulls
drift on the shallow bed
of shattered shells.
In silence cursing,
the open, toothless mouths
of the drowned,

Celan shuffles by,
aimlessly kicking
the shards of wood
littering the shoreline
and blind to the bottle
bucking endlessly
on dying waves.

I sampled the smooth skin


Ian Stewart

I sampled the smooth skin
she had been sentenced

Her Elysian arse slipped
silently onto the mattress,
moulding her flesh
on a

Our tongues touched.

In unison
we spelt out our lurid dreams:
our schemes of fucking, drunk
and damaged
by a cocktail of cocaine
and cannabis.
Here was heaven.

I kissed her breasts,
in the shards
of moonlight
that cut through
the sliver
of glass between the curtains
and slowly savoured

her summer screen
of perfumed

Soweto 1995


Ian Stewart

With the changing winds
blowing crossfire
in the simple streets
of Soweto,
he stumbles blind
down dead alleys
still housing the
Drunk and wild
the township child,
Bantu and bordering on
a state of delirium
bangs loudly
at every door
in his path,
leaving scarlet streams
that meander slowly
into the ditch dividing
the two factions.

Dead dogs silently kiss
the, now burgundy, pool
which forms around
the still, rotting jaws
that had once
barked in anger
at the whips
and the widow-makers.
These dogs,
damned by disease
and forgotten
in their frightened graves
release the beacons
of a new era
where false economies
still hold sway
and a corrupting display
of national pride
and prejudice
flickers on township T.V.ís.
The disease they harbour
fathers another
sibilant infant
bearing sidearms
against the state.
We have created a monster,
he whispers
whilst witnessing
the cruel genocide
of a nationís youth.

Remember the Kasbah '83


Ian Stewart

There was J.B. March and Lindsay,
Paul Hullah, Dave and me
holding down the Billy Whiz
down the Kasbah, Ď83.
Staring at the rude boys
and fighting for the floor;
pigswill, pish and prurience
seeping through the door.

We never had a captainís choice,
we never had a dime:
slipping one more microdot
we whiled away the time.
To Iggy Popís The Passenger
and Waiting for my Man,
we ignored all the warnings
and split another gram.

With poppers strapped around our nose
we watched the band play on.
Just let the arrows fly, cried Paul
Youíre in the chair, my son.
Here J.B. March would leave us
Paul, Lindsay, Dave and me
holding down the Billy Whiz
at the Kasbah, Ď83.

As time grew on and still we came
To share another past,
the crap they played, the Captain Tripped,
the lost, the lone, the last.
Still here we sat in amyl daze
with Sioux, Mohican, Cree
to reconvene that drunken haze
that was the Kasbah, Ď83.

Note: Idea taken from the poem Remember Antwerp, 1568

Cross-Country Smoking


Ian Stewart

Pill Wilks,
silk smooth smile
and breath that stunk
like sick, pulled a cigarette
from his shorts and lit up,
cupping his hands
to shield the match
from the ill-timed wind.
I love it when it rains
during Games, he coughed.

With the soft, shitty sludge of mud
Caking our daps with slaps of
Cow crap we waded on, cross country
And towards the town, around and around,
The sound of sixth form soldiers soldiering on:
Conned by the threats of the Games Master,
Ever faster, forgetting the fridge-like cold
Of those sold to sweat and hunger,
The hunger of the chase over fields and
Fields and more fields, past M5 and
Chosen Hill, still faster, past Pill Wilks
And Welsby and Ade Street, whose feet
Were swollen after grafting to please and
Failing to impress; dressed like a prat
The twat soldiered on.
Walking, we still passed
Shannon, a cannon-like figure from the
Fourteenth century, forever failing to be picked
For any game we played, delayed by his
Own overweight frame, the same shit sticking
To overpriced togs; Mummyís boy and moron,
Jogging at snails pace.

Pill and Welsby smoked
ten in an hour,
the sleet showers
not deterring them
and stroking the silver air
with each breath.

Overheard in Cephalonia


Ian Stewart

(Coversation overheard in the Streets of Cephalonia's capital)

Eh fuckin ell, see this daft beggars
growin oranges in is garden.
I could do wi one o those,
the daft greek bastard.
Ere, do you want one anall?
Ther ya go Luv, I got ye one here.
What the fuckin ell does tha mean
its fuckin orible? Thae daft cunt
these are fuckin luvley.

Fuckin ell thaes right they oranges
are fuckin shite. Doin ye eat it Luv.
Ere yur poisinin bastard
have the fucker back, yer daft
Greek cunt.
Eh, tha fuckin trees empty o them
naw tho.Thaíll teach the daft
beggar fae growin poisin oranges
in is back garden

Ah tel you this tho, theyser
daft fuckin cunts ere tho, aint they!
These daft fuckin geeks!
Ha. Dye get that Luv: geeks-Greeks?
Dye get that? Thats funny that is;
thats fuckin wit.

Anyways, see that bugger this mornin.
That waiter bastard. Ee werent aff
a thick cunt were ee. See, I ses te him.
Look I want three separate bills, I ses.
Not one but three. I mean they bastards
think that just because we come ower here
thegither dont mean we pay fur each others
fuckin food do it?!
Anyways, then I ses ta him
I want the special omelette.
The cheeky cunt
ses tha the special omelete wis
one thousand three hundred drachmas.
Well thas not what I want, I ses.
Thas not whit I wis askin fur.
The cheeky cunt.
Thinks we ur stupid or what?

I fuckin tells the bastard
we want toast fur all seven o us
and toast it both sides.
They cunts only toast it one side,
the daft buggers.
Whit use is toast thats only toasted
on one side?!