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mixed in something weird.

now left wondering.

 

what to do.

the walls feel thin

 

but trap me.

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When “Catalina Fight Song” Sticks in Your Head

pushing petals to the weekend

keep something sweet and free

pushing petals for the weekend

so you can smile at me

 

die every minute

don’t discuss peace

they’re high in the bathroom

their hope is out of reach

 

pushing petals for the weekend

so you can fly with me

I’m dying in the evening

sweating in summer heat

 

pushing petals to the weekend

Gonna get our kicks for free

Ian Galbraith Sings Some News

The problem I have is that Dark Side of the Moon really is a great album.  But then we listen to it over and over again while selling cars and making burritos– and it starts to die.

I like to think that when we move on things get better too.  And sometimes they do but then again.  I’ve seen it get worse too.  Things I love become conflated.

An awkward club to see your lover at.

Che Conflatado do amor falso.

And then the music goes with the relationship sometimes right?

Like if she had Neutral Milk Hotel and you had that band from the Garden State who would listen to either ever again?  Probably not either of you.

Although one night it starts raining and then you think of “New Slang” and he thinks of… probably your breasts you two both put the records on, smoke cigs and forget the world for a while.

Stranger things have happened.

Elect Trump and I Jump

I’ve often thought about killing myself

but only for selfish reasons

only for selfish reasons

have I thought of killing myself

its never something noble

its never something noble

its not as if the human race would be

better

better

only for selfish reasons

its not as if the human race would be

better

for killing themselves

only for selfish reasons

would we build a fence

to keep ourselves in

would we build a fence

to become our own pets

to keep ourselves in

so no one else

could be selfish

only for selfish reasons

never to be better

better

only to kill ourselves

 

 

 

Been afk!

Sorry everyone!  Bad news is I’ve been absent, good news is its because i’ve been crafting a new novel, I think I might share some!

 

The following is a possible later chapter or at worst a deleted scene involving a side character in the novel I’m working on!

Here goes:

 

 

Charlemagne is A Pot Head and He Gets That Done

But with Acid, how much was too much anyway?  White paper upon his tongue he walked through the desert.  If Char had done it ten times, he’d done it twelve ten times.  He could still think.  He could spell.  The practice of economics lay beneath him like a worm squeezed of life.  The pie charts all made sense now and it pointed places, it pointed out of town, out of all the towns.  Something funky in the water, something rotten in the politics.  Char couldn’t put his finger on it.  He kept walking.  How much was too much?

The thing was just ahead of him.  About twelve steps.  That number seemed important today.  He’d watch it.  He had in his hands a book and he held it up high so that he could walk the land between Debauchton and Heaven’s High while reading the text.  The book was pleasant, a collection of Dickenson.  Char had finally developed an appreciation for her.  A fly had just buzzed for dear sweet Emily as the towers of Heaven’s High emerged in the distance.  The walled city was white and resplendent against the scorched brown landscape.  It looked like an alien god’s sentient vomit strewn across an unforgiven and un-scrubbed water closet in a particularly dodgy section of Welsh’s 80’s/90’s era Leith.  Of course all of that was under water by now, Char knew that, of course he knew that!

He was pleased.  The book was done and Ivan would love it.  Two gifts for the price of one stroll!  Char was truly visionary and prodigy amongst drug lords anywhere AND EVERYWHERE!

“OK WHY AM I SHOUTING, THOUGH?” Charlemagne asked

But no one was there to hear him.

“I think I’m wondering, how much is enough?”  He said.

A few ravens flew by him, they were being harried by a brace of adolescent Red Tail Hawks.  The Hawks called in harsh, shrill cries of warning.

“The ravens were in the wrong here man, I’m just passing through.”  Char told them.

He could see the Hawks, they regarded him sternly.  Certainly he knew better than this.  What was he doing getting mixed up with such rough company?  Ravens were terrible creatures.  He reasoned out an apology,

“I’ll leave you this ham right?  And then you know… I won’t let it happen again.  Right?”  Char went down the road and kept on towards Hawksville.  The hawk’s let him go with a warning.  No eyeball pecking.  Just- stern words.  On to Ivan’s pad— He’d be there backpack, briefcase and fanny back all settled and cozy by nightfall.  Just in time for the ceremony of the seasons to finally fucking end.

Fireworks in the distance told him no, not quite yet.  Not over yet.  His buddy was still squirming on stage next to his sexy sister.   Was it weird for him to dig his friends identical twin?  Was he?  Was that…  Char figured it didn’t matter because he’d never act on it anyway.  Belladonna was out of his league.  Char was just a renegade living out on the prairies in the badlands.  Czarina Belladonna Czar was like an angel with a shotgun… She was like vidscreen star and like better… she was like Bog’s sun Bezus…. And she was like the rising sun… then she was the moon… but more like the night sky strewn with stars… a sunset really.  He settled on that.  She was a fucking sunset.  And he was not going to tell her any of that.  Ivan and him.  That meant more than sunsets.  Wait was that… no…

“SERIOUSLY.”

Charlemagne was, he supposed, very, very high.  Somewhere in the distance he could hear the Shins.  It was one of Ivan’s favorites, something off of wincing the night away.  Did that mean it was Ivan’s turn up on the stage?  He grimaced.  Char knew Ivan hated the speeches.  He knew that Ivan usually got pretty loaded himself just to get by up there.  Bog only knew how his dad[1] Cliff got it done.

The Polis of Hawksville loomed before him.  White walls and black towers stretching towards the sky.  Red banners.  Images of vicious predatory birds— the very same Hawk’s Char had been leary of on the way over.  It wasn’t for nothing that he worried.  Sometimes the wild birds were actually robotic scout drones and sometimes the peaceful polis went out to the villages on the badlands and harvested organs from the living— well the living dead he had come to call them.  They were all that out there.   Not even a friendship with a martyr class citizen granted him much safety.  It was just as well.  The world had gone to shit.  Char kept walking.

As the sun started to set he could see the Geistkin suddenly emerging across the badlands.  They were pale and glowed a faint turquoise like that of a healthy sea from story book days. Vicious fuckers really but from a distance Geistkin were cute in a way.  They danced and twirled to their own music.  Certainly not the Shins.  Something older and darker.  Something elegant.  It was like the music you find playing at a vampire’s ball.  They were one thing that kept thriving in all climates and seasons and in spite if not as a result of the nearly constant wars.

 

[1] Ivan’s that is.  Char’s father was a dead naval captain.  And a good one too.  Still dead though.  A lot of people were.  Char hardly blamed him for it.  Although the naval bit had been voluntary… so there was that.

Sad Eyes

Sad eyes

don’t lie

to tell

the truth

sad eyes

build homes

of proof

sad eyes

longing

for day

sad eyes

just dream

life away

sad eyes

that steal

my heart

and leave

my soul

in puddles

beneath

the wind

Been A While by Ian Gordon Galbraith

Here’s a slice of my life:

There’s a super moon tonight with an eclipse and I’m hoping we can see it but I love you enough to hold you close and then also to let you go.  I don’t pimp a butterfly, you know?  There is so much to write about.  the junkers next door who gave the dog urn that you use as an elegant ash tray even though it usually stands proudly on your desk like some grim chalice of unknown power.  There is the time we found the dog and we almost adopted him but his mother came and took him away.  Was that symbolic>  I hope not.  I like you.  You make me nervous.  It’s the best.  People have started photographing me, us, I don’t know what it is or what’s up but it keeps happening.  usually in coffee shops.  Doesn’t seem fair, shouldn’t that be a safe space?  People are strange.  I am a lover.  I am fighting desire and oppression I am practicing detachment but I love you all too much to give you up.  Is this the beginning of something or will my life finally end.  I’m twenty-five, they say I’m just starting but than again, I feel so much older than I used to.  It’s disgusting how much I miss you.  I’m never angry anymore but sometimes I don’t feel like… still I won’t give in you know?  I’ve yet to sit down and write.  I get poems out, or spit songs that could one day be good yet right now they still are doing the whole semi- sucking thing.  And I think about all of you back home and I wonder what you are going through, is everything alright in San Diego and Orange County?  Is LA being kind to you?  Will Newport make you feel satisfied and whole after a lifetime of insecurity and depression?  Does the spectrum pay you enough for the lifestyle you like to live?  It seems like you are always spending.  Mangos and ice cream, beauty products, cocaine.  Always the cocaine.  And then there’s you in west Hollywood and you out in north Hollywood and you out in Inglewood suddenly and finally maybe leaving for good?  Are you out?  Are you leaving?  Jack be quick, jack be nimble, I love you too.

What can I say what can I do?  I left my native land and went to the north to fight against something.  Capitalism?  Convention?  Maybe I’m still just at war with myself.  Hopefully not at war with love, feeling it, feeling fine, so good, so good, so good, almost, yes, divine, divine, amazing, ecstasy…. please let me be the only one for you.  But I forgive you if I am not enough.  It is enough.  I can stay here, I can move on, I can do both I can do nothing, let me sing you a song.  I can get better I will get better, don’t let me do no wrong.  Tomorrow when I wake up, let me be a better one.  Godspeed you me, godspeed you you.  I should capitalize more.  God is watching.  God is me, God is you, I am God, I am Buddha, I can do anything.  Those words from a cancerous professor who pretty much just hated me.  Said I tried to hard.  I tried to kill myself but not hard enough.  I am still alive and I always will be but you’ve got to outlive me because I really love you.  Do you get it?  Don’t give up.

Goodnight

Ian Gordon Galbraith

Upcoming Short Fiction by Ian Gordon Galbraith

*This is a Work in Progress

A rain falls for a time before the wind takes its clouds away. Stars shine in the last sky as the two of them say goodbye.

He pauses, “you know… you could come with me to New York, Cassidy…” his voice trails off.

Suddenly he can see she is smiling through tears. They trickle down in bursts. And suddenly he tastes salt and feels warm beads move down his chin.

“… I mean— goodbye Cassidy.”

“Goodbye Tom,”

“Goodbye Cass,” he says again. He feels himself turn red but she just smiles.

The gears are turning in his head. His face must seem almost comical. In that it must be wrenching— he feels it contort as he turns to go. His insides fall to pieces and start tearing at his guts. Demons on ice-skates are doing ballet in his intestines.

He goes to New York. Tom walks down the long lanes down-town in the spring and he can feel the sun on him like the smiles of old friends. Everything is alive in New York in a way he had not seen in Chicago. Here everyone steps with grim resolution. New York is a beautiful battlefield of common day massacres and lives sent amidst each other without purpose, without reason and together they find a common flow. Beautiful. He looks up at the Academy. It shines- bright gleaming glass in the May sun. He walks inside, to a new future, training in “Psycho-Historionics”[1] from the greatest team in the United States, maybe even the world. But the place is strict.

Living there at the academy in New York presents difficulties; they have strict policies on everything from study hours to “free time”[2]. He dies and dies and dies and dies and dies and dies each and every day. Nothing can help him, nothing can save him. His soul is inside of her. He left it there. He paces the halls as the days grow colder.

The snow comes. Summer leaves New York with the geese as they go south. First everything turns into auburn gold. It gets as pretty as Cass… almost… Then it dies and the chill comes. The streets turn white and the wind starts to bite.

The program at the academy begins. They start to take things. His weed, for instance— and so he does not light the joints anymore, strangely the Zippo she gave him disappears as well.

He gives up on pacing. So Tom passes the time between class and clinic spinning records. He spins Translatlanticism[3] and Folie à Deux.   He spins Give Up and Big Iron World and even Marquee Moon. The music[4] is like listening to the songs of Autumn leaves as they spin bloated and red back down to earth to rot into mud that feeds the roots and brings more leaves. He knows its weird— sad music makes him smile. It helps the time go by. Dreams torment him. They are growing more and more vivid. His shrink calls it “New to New York Trauma”, he calls that bullshit. Then the academy takes his records. They tell him the music is what fuels his nightly visions. The record player is left in the room to stand inert. Like him it’s empty, and nothing can fill it now. He files a complaint letter with the dean. Then one day he wakes up chained to a hospital bed.

“What’s going on?” Tom asks as the blurs in the room smooth into cohesion, there are no windows. A pale flickering light wavers above him, just the bulb hanging at the end of a long cord. The ceiling is high vaulted and bathed in shadows.   He cannot see how high it may stretch but Tom imagines it as several stories of inky darkness.

“Just some vaccinations,” a voice assures him.

A shot enters his left arm at the crease near the elbow. Plasma hangs above him, suspended like an insane jellyfish. Next to it there is something green.

“I already have all my shots…” and he notices a large gap in the nurses teeth but then Tom drifts into sleep and vision.

He can see her— she is flying away. He feels himself drift closer. She is not flying away from him but from everything. He falls into her so swiftly he expects the impact to send them both to earth. Instead the two of them take off together. Her wings are like a drawbridge closing shut forever as they lift her up into the air farther and farther away. She was an angel and no one ever knew. She has these high heels on and this black dress that keeps shimmering into new forms. First he thinks it’s a dress, then its jeans and then it’s… an imperial robe… the visions seem to cycle, to flicker.   She floats on as if none of it is happening. Like her aura always evokes this kind of magic. She walks up into the thin air with bold steps like a Buddha ascending into to heaven. Her skin is pale and her eyes are warm and old. Her hair floats with her in the wind. She could be anything.

[1] By applying psychological study to the movements of large bodies of people one can predict the future, allegedly, by applying psycho-historionics, one can predict and control people, allegedly. The science is said to be “Fringe”, polite parlance for too far past the cutting edge.

[2] They let him leave the compound for two hours a day. At first.

[3] See album link for blue italicized words, the reader is encouraged to listen to these albums with the text, the order and duration of each is up to the reader.

[4] I may yet cut this scence, it wastes space. It would offend any teacher.