Slung low and heavy the Cousteau

Slung low and heavy the Cousteau
Cold and steady absurd like general
Light weight low and holstered
Slung low and heavy
Heavy iron solemn steel
Cockatiels carved
Low and steady
Eyes red and ready
Solemn steel slung low
Holstered and heavy
Armchair poet slain for lack of living
Heavy prints led footfalls away
Armchair poet slain for lack of living
Slung low and heavy the Cousteau
He got up and walked away
Out the front door and down the street
Head to toe medieval shogun
Delivered- imperator’s decree



The boon of Erebos

The hillside rolled with a subtle incline almost as smooth as a sigh and the figures marched upward.
A yellow sun hung over a blew sky, my
Father and his friends unloaded their gear and set up camp.

“It’s never been this crowded before.” My godfather said.

My father turned and gazed up the gentle- daunting slope. I followed his gaze.

“They must have heard how nice it is this time of year.”

I looked out on the land and watched the procession.

Then without warning I darted into the brush and followed them… From a distance.

I saw them at the top of the hill their hoods off, their languid faces weeping long black tears in bright sunlight. They clutched in their hands bright metal, sharp metal, engraved and grim yet nonetheless beautiful knives. Before I could blink they drove the blades they each clutched deep into their throats and dropped dead in a fantastic array. It was the sign of Erebos. That’s when I realized the shadows held dark things. Wicked nymphs watched me and giggled- the ceremony had been of their design and now the noon of Erebos was bestowed upon them. I said naught- but turned and fled.


Just seated
On the ceiling
To better view
The coming sky
The bolstered bulkhead.

Denounced and unending
Divorced and trembling
Calm and soothing
The lie of autumn
Hinting of a warm breeze
In bitter cool air
In dark of night.

Ireland again

Really tried
But I let the day slip from me
Man was a boxer
Cross the bar from me
Wearing his age
On his face
Like a set of old scars
Talking to me
Saying ya man
Your lucky you’re born here
Got it all worked out
Me I’m just an old man
I don’t know if ill see Ireland again.

Dreaming the apocalypse

Spinning me new ones
Bleeding my money away
Closed out
Rail lines
With too few options

This is my America
A place where you can’t afford
But breads everywhere
You can stay where you stand
And get fat like everyone else

But you won’t see the rest
And if you travel
And if you try
To chase your dream
You will die

You will get sick
Go mad
Get hungry
Hide your eyes and sigh

You will be betrayed by a thousand lovers
And wake up every weekend
Missing your forgotten loves
And grasping for footholds
On the open air

Dreaming the apocalypse was today
When it’s always tomorrow


Someone told me last night

That all of this will end

That this joy is fleeting

That the hole in my heart won’t mend

And it was sad

All around me were smiling faces

As far as I knew-

It would never end

But there was no way round it

Tomorrow I was going to San Diego

I’d have to leave my friends



Everything comes true
And sometimes the bastards lie
But your friends
They stay true
The people that you love
Baby they always come though
You see them n the middle of a late night
And early morning
Still drinking strong.
Still staying true.
Your buddies are your buddies
They will stay
When everyone leaves you
And your working some job you hate
And you ain’t got no place to live
Your friends
Are gonna be with you
Comrades stick round
Till the bitter end