Here's a wee experiment - an hour or so of tunes and chat from yours truly...

So anyway, I was looking at the thousands of records, CDs and digital whatnots I've managed to collect over the years, and the pile of radio equipment sitting there glumly, and I thought (after a month of broadcasting silence) I might as well put it to some use.

Here's the Beatcroft Social, then. I've already recorded one for next week (when I'm on holiday), featuring a whisky tasting. Future editions may have more poetry and on-location stuff from around Shetland, as well as new tracks from Scottish artists.) See what you think. It may be self-indulgent nonsense, but hey, it was fun to do. Hope you enjoy it.

Get in touch via Facebook  (facebook.com/tommorton) emailing me (tmaccalmanmortonATgmail.com) or on Twitter @thebeatcroft.

The Beatcroft Social, Volume One by Tom Morton's Beatcroft Social on Mixcloud

The Zetlandic Muse #1: Beardopolis

Beardopolis

Welcome to Shetland, land of the beard

Where weak jawlines are made to disappear

And chins, quadruple down to double

Sprout wispy, weedy down, or fearsome stubble

The kind that leaves a rash or even scars

The casual  kisser, or removes the paint from cars

Should face and body work collide 

Some small refreshment having been imbibed

It can take many months, or even years

To grow a quite convincing Viking beard

And would-be Norsemen, filled with fear and doubt

Their naked chins refusing to sprout

Resort to desperate measures, pills and ointments

To counter any hairless disappointment 

Hormone supplements, consumed in quantities

So vast, they've opened special pharmacies

Male pattern baldness, fought by men down south

Means nothing here. It's whiskers round the mouth

Which mark the man of honour, poise and strength

No wonder here we'll go to any length

Those bristles to obtain

We'll suffer any pain

Abrasion with sandpaper will

Used with a Black and Decker drill

Stimulate, I'm told those Viking follicles

It's a fact, historical, absolute and true

It worked for me. I pray it works for you

In Praise of The Great Skua (Death of a Tourist)

I love bonxies.

They killed a tourist once

On Noss, or Bressay

Heart failure, it was said

Old age. It would have happened anyway.

Adventurous, alone

He stumbled through a nesting site

And down they came

Sirenless Stukas, grimly silent.

Unarmed, unlike the  

Stinking, spewing Fulmar:

A Maali leaves its reek.

If a Great Skua hits you, birdfolk say,

It’s a mistake. No beak

Has penetrated brain.

Just wave a stick or shirt

Retreat, the way you came

Signalling submission.

Pirates of the air

They’ll steal from, kill, maim

Any birds

Even the pin-up puffins

Drowned first, then eaten.

Brutal, brown, hefty,

Grim coastal reaper 

I’ve felt your slipstream

The whirr of feathers

Pass my face

As that trespasser

Fell, clutching  his chest

Did he catch your swooping eye

(Ruthless, implacable)

His vacation dream 

Of wilderness

Final and absolute?

Bonxies

It’s what they do

It’s what they are

Bonxies

Stern and menacing

Riders of the storm

Bonxies

Love them or hate them

(And I love them)

You have been warned

Bonxies.

Selfie

In a locked desk drawer

I found a camera

Leather ever-ready case

Green-moulded, cracked

It opened, stiffly

Carefully-capped, lens

Flecked with fungus, 

Viewfinder, last held

To a dead man’s eye

I lifted it to mine

And saw only ghosts

The focus ring

Locked to a lost face or landscape

Exposure set

One five-hundredth of a second

At f16

Some bright day 

A huge overwhelming light

My fingers found the catch

The case sprang open

On a forgotten film

Too slowly, I closed the door

On an obliterated past.

Hand on Heart

This is not pain
It's merely a reminder

A grip, tightening
A warning

Muted by nitro glycerine
Under the tongue

Aspirin and whisky
Blessed whisky

Opening arteries
Thinning the blood

Prising off that
Cold hard

Hand on heart

Chapping

Clattering tongues,
Chattering, nattering, flattering
Shattering
Muttering, whispering
Raging and spattering
Buttering-up to batter down
Diminish and undermine
Chisel and chamfer
Split and splinter

Dominoes
Flicking, clicking,
Clacking, lacking
Cackling

In the end,
Numberless
Wordless
Hopeless


Chapping
Chapping
Chapping

Just a decade old: (I Love) Whulks. A song for gastropod lovers everywhere

This song was once performed, believe it or not, at a school choir competition. To much critical acclaim but, alas, little competitive success...