Fugitive Bullets, you can tell from the cover, is out for fun. 

This you spot from the fact that the writers are together described as electrophalluciphysicians, (one of the few search terms on the internet that throws up no less than zero results) and may refer to the fact that aside from their other commonalities, the writers here published are all experimentally or underground Scots blokes.

First up is John McGarrigle (a Glasgow writer most of his days) who offers an amazing story, The Banshee of Carlton Heights, which revels in the worst excesses of junkie Scots fantasy noir. It’s a tale of tacky tartan nameplates, poor wrecked Weegie folk, and the cruel whorish spirit of Ishtar Mari; yes: ‘Chalky was dead but Ishtar Mari still rode him as she drained every available piece of life force from within him.’

It’s just my personal opinion but I think Rodney Relax (born in Fife but now “exiled” in Edinbra)’s razor wit and wy with words make him the wizard of this collection.  Reading Rodney Relax makes you feel like you live in a town of psychos, killers, dirty auld prams, (Birkenside Blitz, an epic in 20 lines, I’m no kidding) and dark broken down streets.  You might not want to read a poem called Edukashun in Poetry, but you would be missing out on an edukashun in itself; Rodney Relax writes himself straight off the planet and into the cosmos, showing what poetry can do and what it means to him; it’s a great poem:

a poem is a
city at war, a
destroyer I wurds
a red spot
oan Jupiter,

Razor Lassies evokes a Tom Waits style of rundown toun, but is actually more like the poetic sketching of the (high) Modernists.

Graham Brodie (born in Edinburgh)has a gift for inner voices; I’m sure inner voices speak to us all but Brodie has a helluva knack of capturing them; ‘a biscuit / I’ve not had one / in ages / aye, why not’ (treat)

For Jim Ferguson (lives and writes in glorious Glasgow) see PROFESSORS OF RHETORIC (FOR ALL THE MASS COMMUNICATORS). ‘So , yirra professor of rhetoric uryi / ah seeyeez everyday ya fannies / wankin on the box / why no be a bus driver / just be a bus driver / think yir spiel makes us feel any better.’

The poem made me feel a whole lot better.  I still continue to read this poem as a kind of medicine against the gobshites of the world.

There is a piece in Fugitive Bullets by Nick E Melville (Bides in Edina) called from burns(s) suppe'r which blows me away - - - it’s because of the way the item is conceived and the sense it makes in so many ways at once, while being minimalist as fuck.  It’s clever.  The found sequence generated is made from a sequence of Robert Burns poems, which have the words of the poems tippexed out, leaving only the titles and the explanatory notes of the Scottish words.  It’s a class way to read a poem, and a class way to read a poem in Scots.

And that’s your Fugitive Bullets, from OGPRESS / 1 O’Clock Gun (Bath/Edinburgh) –  the collection is reekin as it says of ‘Scottish gorilla like humanity’ – apt.