It was a legendaryary night at the karaoke club. My evil twin, Rex Ruthore had come out burning with The Greatest American Hero, leaving the crowd in a puddle of mixed awe, rapture and nitrous ecstasy. The applause nearly knocked him off his feet which sent me reeling with an exalted Barry Manilow afterglow outside the 'Nights of Jenny' stripclub, where I was inspired to do an unprecedented air-guitar dropkick backspin luther van dross smooth move special which landed my ankle in just the right position to floor me onto the concrete. This is something I did all by myself, and can be proud of. I was then escorted to my friend's car and supplied with crutches and a boot. Since I have gained thirty-six pounds and have spent an egregious amount of time watching the films of John Carpenter. On the bright side of things, however, I received correspondence from a strapping young Scottish buck [Craig Buchanan] whose poetry is reminiscent at times of Billy Connoly and at others of a straight shot of Kentucky mountain whiskey. With a Scottish accent. Craig [Craig Buchanan], in his letter regarding The Dutch Wife Chronicles, said that he [Craig Buchanan] had written a poem for nearly each of the titles in the 'handbook'. Now, just to freshen your memory, The Dutch Wife Chronicles -- we write the titles you write the story [Paul Blair/David Moscovich] has a rubber doll on nearly every page. What does this have to do with the creative endeavor, you might add? You might try subtracting to find out. Which is what we did with The Chronicles. We subtracted the stories. As if we had ever written them. Seriously, though, the stories aren't there, just the titles. And it's themed around Dutch Wives, you got that. And so does Craig Buchanan. Now as I've stated in the introduction to the book, it's not that the authors are inimitably in love, in lust, head over wheels shoving fists into sex dolls or sweating over their every seam and stitch seeking them throughout the land in every sex shop imaginable peeking behind the lavender lingerie the leather the leather the cuffs the peepshows the flyers for whores the sex museums the girl in the jean skirt standing on the corner with a hello kitty bracelet and a tattoo of a sphinx in minx with the d-cup bra with the tantalizing pinky furry cotton candy handcuffs it's not that we're obsessed with these often meaningless objects of capitalism and creativity melting into one perfect union of woman and plastic, no, but as a rhetoric, as a subject for a rubber dialectic, a false philosophy of latex air, yes, it is for the fascination of human diversity that we have pursued this noble goal. And Craig [Buchanan] [Craig Buchanan] the Scottish poet, has written many things inspired by this book, one of which I am about to read to you right now, aloud, but which you might decide to read by yourself, here, in this electronica, below.




Airms and legs



The guy had these fucking
manky hands
always looked like
he’d just come off
a twelve hour shift
in a baby stranglin’ factory.
he was always whingeing
bout puncture repair kits
for the
blow-up dolls
which he bought
from my shop.
And always wanted to
closely examine
the latex vaginas
out of the boxes,
poking at em
with those
black hands.

Day in question
he was mumbling
some shit or other,
i must have been
feelin inquisitive
“eh?”
“uv funt a wiy ay keep thum blown up.”
“what?”
should have just left it there,
but went
“what?”
“u sez uv funt a wiy ay keep thum blown up –
likes.”
“aye…
what…
how?”
“u cut the airms and legs oaf ay thum un u
stuff thum wi auld paper und tights.”

My bewilderment
forced me
to enquire of
this
man
what the fuck
he was talking about
“where the fuck
do you git the tights?”
-“just ken lyin about the hoose, auld yins
likes.”
“Fuck –
and where do you cut the arms and legs off?”
“mu garage likes...”
“i meant,
never mind,
never mind what a meant
if yer no buyin anything
Then get the fuck
out a my shop…
sir.”




Craig Buchanan is a poet and writer from Scotland, an often grey country renowned for strong drink, third world level mortality rates and domestic violence. In the haar of this blue funk lurk chance encounters with drunk she-men, sexual deviants and the gentlemen of the road – channelling these unheard entities is this poets work. And it is vital, and often dangerous work, which probably won’t be featuring on any Scottish tourism brochures. Come to Scotland we’ve some beautiful mountains and islands, and we don’t use dogs for live shark bait, yet.