Motel Blues

False cowboys take up motel rooms.

You’re in that weary state where you mumble phrases

Like: “I don’t know man” and “just give me the key”

And you want to wave goodbye

To the ugly landscape. The person at reception

Tells you the pool is closed. There’s no barrier around the pool

But you don’t want to take a chance. There’s one room left.

 

A cowboy stands idle under the sad yellow light

Blackened by flies and acting forlorn.

You know for a fact his mind’s on the steak he had

When he was seven and his father came home early.

 

Motel rooms scream secrets

But you’re too tired for degeneracy – anyway,

The mayor of a nearby town is entertaining in room 207

Dressed as a gigolo Santa in July. Never the less,

The orange heat of the dawn sun

Coming through the blinds in the desert morn

Is as welcoming as any waterfall.

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Soldiers

They told me statues would weep for me

After I lost my heart in a foreign country,

They told me the Gods would offer me peace

But they lost me when I heard them speak.

 

Venom, hidden poisons on their breath

Like thunderclouds around my head.

Lies are always told to solders scorned

By the deathless tide of tired war.

Salem’s Fools

We are Salem’s fools

Fearful and hollow,

We are cruel

And born to follow.

 

Our eyes are bright

With firelight,

And our devils die screaming.

 

Our village unbound and

Our vision blind,

Our victims are found

To be our kind.

 

It is too late, for their blood

Stains our hands

And we cry to ourselves at night.

 

Yet we are still sure we are right.

Cabin

I want to be the guy in the white shirt

Black tie, spewing nonsense bullshit

From my Cabin somewhere in the woods,

From a transistor radio with a screw loose.

I would set free insults both obscure and wild,

And watch the birds close the sun for the day.

My fans would be rabid, I wouldn’t trust them.

I would discuss history, executions, and martyrs,

Folk songs too. I’d play my own home recordings

From my solid white tape. I would spy on Jupiter,

Watch its rings and learn of its medicines.

My long shotgun (‘Rusty’) will rest at peace by the door.

The moon will be my spotlight and I will be happy.

Prose 1

Climbing over fences, taking chances to see a sunset that is pleasurable to the eye. It’s been a long day but for the faintest reason I can’t remember any of it. I had ice cream, vanilla, crazy. Wow what an hour I can see buffalo in the corner of my eye and that lazy tune that has been in my head since Tuesday will just not go away. I want it to let up so I can feel a different vibe but that beat keeps rising. It’s some Indian thing. After I see the world I think I should get some rice for my dinner… I’m hungry and I want to feel like I own a lot of things, so there you go rice it is. I meander to the little bohemian quarter where the chilli and rice restaurant stays open late. Fashionable couples in gowns and shoes discuss grandma and super market prices. Hmmmm. A lovely French painting hangs on the wall I must ask the waiter who the painter was, if he was sad or happy or full of strong ale. I like to think He had a lot of roses in his garden. The waiter waited upon me and I got some £8 rice. Well it costs a lot to have the nicest things. I have a hole in my jazz influenced shoe. It was cheap, I brought it for next to anything. The rice was nice, it really took the weight off my shoulders. I couldn’t wait to swim through the stars and sleep in my own bed.

Mambo Cocktail

Gris Gris
Distant thunder
Mambo Spain, Cuba
Not the same
Cadillac Rock
Simple rhythms and pulsating beats
Slap bass rumble knife
Rocket voodoo money woes
Street sand, dirt, drink – drink
Cocktails, night time, Reagan
Economics: Drugs, no
Blues, yes
Poly sounds surround screeching parrots
Talking palm tree beach smoking
Huts tropical sea breeze
Louisiana stretch midnight party
Mardi gras poverty wooden floors
Happy life, swaying branches
Middle suburbs in spring
True love, Neruda Lorca
Let the Latin in.