A Tale of Metaphor as Material.

Metaphor as Materials


I have not lost my metaphor

I am just finding it

It’s in my bones

suck the marrow:

spit it out;




Pictures within pictures.

Frames of intimacies.


The ambassadors of our frontiers are not our statesmen

But our prospectors

Dug dynanite dredged

I am the law

Dust to dust

Lindal Moor’s raw ore

Shipped to Bonawe

Slipped into reduction

Not with Quaker Coke’s efficiency

but exhumed trees.


What greater way to supplicate a nation

than through the consumption of its chattel.

Having exhausted his native Lancastrian trees,

Frustrated by their lack of fecundity,

he slipped into that other union with a dowry of trees.

The forest had no escape.

Forced into marital rape.

Consummated in fire, a funeral pyre.

All that green reduced to black

Where should we wear our cross on that Jack?


Men in furnaces need their beer

Highland water tasted too queer

They brought the seeds that remain as Betty’s hops.

No flowers as it’s not too hot.


What was the ballast that those Lancastrian ships took back?

It was the body of Bonawe mountains themselves

Strong evenly fragmented

Perfect for cobbles

Pretender of Tar Macadam


Bellicose Britain’s Bonawe baked canon balls

That Slag burnt to heat to pig iron.

Franc-allies of Jacobites drowned.

A cannibalization of its once allies.



Let us discuss this in the age of reason not treason

Let us define a man’s work, his property as secular not sacred.


Rio Tinto Alcan have the world, they are the world

Australia, China, Canada and Brazil have Alumina.

That river is as dark as an aged port

Whisky ages in port casks

Japanese whisky from Lidl is cheaper


Vassal of water, of captured latency of Treig, Spean and Spey

Captive hope, latent hope

Flowing not free, dialed to fleetingly heat hot air.

Count this point of refraction and reduction

Captivating heat as pressure

Sintered aluminum cinders

Smelted ore frames the shadow of the

old God man mountain to tèarnadh his wife

the wind frame capture rapture


Of course it is the last that is most deadly

Scotland to a T

Forrest comminuted Tennets gold in cycanide

Those triple bonds waiting and wanting to fuse with our flesh.

Bayer Boyles Hall, Heroult Deville, Soderberg,

MacArthur and Forrest are long since dead.


The names of those scientists, the spare heir, the non apparents

Eponymous names of diseases suffered

inflicted on the stratified animals.

Bayer Boyles Bauxite

Alumina Gibbsite Boehmite Diaspore


Aluminium as beautiful as the wooded glens once were.

Soft skin of youthfull irridescent purity

Seduction of surface.


Scientific developments the later part of the 19th century

allowed painters to have

Vivid, light fast colours.

What was once Lapzi is now sodium aluminium silicate

Red iron oxide gives English red, the colour of Argylls rust.

Reassuringly, lamp gas is the soot of petrified trees.


My beloved translucent turquoise cyan cyanide

Hedbridean seas, Lorn and Awe

Let me hex phthalo triplet around the floor

A reel of what name?

The wheel of all our life

Blood’s heam and chlorphyll’s green.


Extruded from Aluminium.

Extruded from metal

Mixed poured brushed dropped cajoled

Sits vulnerable in its refined state

the hidden material latent memory.

Slow thought stops

Revealed slope intent and sag

Slipped silently sideways

Like all good oil redundant to perfection


Dust sticks to the apparent slick surface

brighter and more saturated

Revealed by great transparency

the action of light

The sun keeps giving.


The monoculture that is the forestry plantation drowns the land

burns in its acid sterility.

Decorative deciduous borders do to not fool animals.


Funded by feudal centuries.

The same people that drew down that asset,

profited from that original sin that union

the devalued fettered thistle

Hunts shoots balls reels wait as their assets grow.

Trusts pays less dues to their Crown.

This slip still stays distilled.


Are we enlightened now?

Product, commodity

Futures never restore hope but apparent empires

Domains never return satiated sanity

But meters and packing

Desire is fire

And so we return to trees.

I have been many things to many people.

What do they call me now?



Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s