The Divided Self by Keith Armstrong 'When'er my muse does on me glance, I jingle at her.' (Robert Burns). Such an eye in a human head,from the toothless babyto the toothless man,the Edinburgh wyndsbleed whisky.Through all the Daft Days,we drink and greein the local howffs,dancing downBread Street.Like burns with Burnsthese gutters run;where Fergusson once tripped,his shaking glassjumpsin our inky fingers,delirium tugsat our bardish tongues;dead drunk,we dribble downa crafty doublefor Burke & Hare,heckle a Deacon Brodiegibberingon the endof the hangman's rope. In all these great and flitting streetsawash with cadies,this poet's dustclingslike distemper to our bones.We're walking throughthe dark and daylight,the laughsand tortureof lost ideals.Where is the leader of the mob Joe Smith,that bowlegged cobblerwho snuffed it on these cobbles,plungingfrom this stagecoach pissed?Where is the goldof Jinglin' George Heriot?Is it in the sunglow on the Forth?We're looking for girls of amazing beautyand whores of unutterable filth:'And in the Abbotsfordlike gabbing assesthey scale the heightsof Ben Parnassus.' Oh Hugh me ladwe've seen some changes.In Milne's, your great brow scowls the louder;your glass of bitternessdeep as a loch:'Till a' the seas gang dry, my dearAnd the rocks melt wi' the sun.' Oh Heartof Midlothian,it spits onto rainstill hopes.Still hope in her light meadowsand in her volcanic smiles.And we've sung with Hamishin Sandy Bell'sand Nicky Tamsand Diggers,a long hard supalong the cobblesto the dregsat the World's End:'Whene'er my muse does on me glance,I jingle at her.' Bright as silver,sharp as ice,this Edinburgh of all places,home to a raving melancholiaamong the ghostsof Scotland's Bedlam:'Auld Reekie's sons blythe faces',shades of Fergusson in Canongate. And the blee-e'ed sun,the reaming ale our hearts to heal;the muse of Rose Streetseeping through us boozy bards,us snuff snortersin coughing clouds. Hereon displayin this Edinburgh dream:the polished monocle of Sydney Goodsir Smith,glittering byhis stained inhaler;and the black velvet jacketof RLS,slumped bya battered straw hat. And someonewolf whistlesalong Waterloo Place;and loverskiss moonlighton Arthur's Seat:see Edinburgh rise. Drinkfrom her eyes. (from Imagined Corners, Smokestack Books, 2004).