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…


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.


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.


Ian Gordon Galbraith

Strange- Dark- Struggles-

strange dark struggles-

my comrades and I-

I find them ever so often-

In times like these-

Or places like this-

that I am emerald

and you are amethyst

that you are pearls

and I am a rose

and upon the faces

of those we know

that sometimes-

murdered of reason-

divorced from soul-

often sent screaming-

LA County- 99 to life-

the wild hills

location unknown

that men and women are weeping

and as to why- well-

Nobody knows

Such strange dark struggles.

A corpse on Tuesday

My friends I’m fucking over this shit
Why can’t we just run away?
This town is fucked
The cake is a lie too
I remember when I was the true believer
Now I’ve lost my way
Lost my head
Lost my heart
Falling apart
Utter melting doom
And I smell like cheese
From the dark side of the moon
Im a corpse baby
Really I am

I used to bike all over the city

I used to bike all over the city
My aunt’s mountain bike would take me places
My friend and I we saw robots at Starbucks
And monsters outside of chase
Los Angeles is a crazy world

You can see anything really

We biked past scientologist strongholds that watched out over
Paltry comic shops and comedy clubs
I fear for the upright citizens brigade-
They are too close to the source
And without protection

The stronghold may snuff them out

You see comedians are like philosophers
they point out awkward truths
They show you the city is a mad place
A world of cyborgs and silicone saints
Yet beneath it all still remains

A clouded yet very real- very human place

In the streets- if they are so surreal
I lose myself in waking
As I am unable to
In sleep.

An Alleyway Incident pt. 1

It was raining as I walked through east Hollywood. The dirty streets broke out gleefully with graffiti and street art. Skulls and anarchist charging- death on the winds. The alleys were not as safe at night, east Hollywood is not the Chinese theater- it’s more like Bukowski’s bachelor pad after a run of bad luck but some of us still call it home. Hell some of us were born here. I know I was… That’s how I got caught up with everything anyway. Hollywood is simply rotten with undead. Hell- necromancers even have it on the short end of the schttick. On one end of it the mortal authorities generally kept corpses off the street. Fresh ones were easy to get- gang fights, robbery victims, crack heads drawing there last in the park at night on Tuesdays- anywhere really but you had to move fast. The mortals hated death. It sucked given that I courted her. And then of course on the other end of the sthickkk were vampires and lich kings running rampant throughout film, television, music, shit pretty much every department of everything throughout the city. Couldn’t so much as bat an eye or take a leak without seeing some crumbly faced ice kings and strange greedy demons. Basically I had nothing to work with really and I refused to dirty my hands in order to replenish my stock. Some necromancers think murder is a good option, a step on the road to getting what they want but I think that just ruins the magic. Lives and deaths of mortals aside necromancy itself is a very beautiful thing. For me it’s sort of like the best punk show I’ve ever been too. There’s an art. To it. And I won’t bore you with it.

Basically I was going down the alleys of east Hollywood not far from my basement lab and looking for stuff that had died or could be overcome. I kept a few rats here and thither for scooting and sniffing around and spiders, I had tons of spiders running around and laying little zombie spiders eggs everywhere. At night sometimes they would come running back to me with whispers. Mostly gossip though…. Something in the soil made them prone to it. But once in a while something good. Tonight, they had told me, was a great big old bloody old disgusting ass vampire initiation ritual involving most of the fresh dead for the night.

Shit luck sent me down a narrow road choked with five separate factional posts. Over here was a shop held by a pyromancer, there an inn that served as a front for Dionysian revelry, a barber shop held basements of vampire and necromancers and their dead. The bar was owned by some tough fucking soldiers- badass fucking mercenaries with no love for the living and hatred for the dead. I did like that bar though, an Irish tavern, guys from Boston, formers boxers- bouncers and bar tenders there. Not pleasant on their bad days…. All that down one road I walk when I need to do these dark deeds by the moral code I learned living in the woods. That things aught be nurtured and things of the wild aught to roam free in their own right. For my day to day that meant keeping the dead kicking when and while I could- was it so wrong if they happened to step to my tune? Was it my vault I gave the undead Mohawks and guitars? Was it so wrong for a necromancers to dabble in orchestral rock?

I walk the streets with a black acoustic guitar. I don’t mean to brag but it’s a fine piece of art. I’m really just a man of art. Right. I strum chords down the alleyway. The squeak of rats, the scurry of spiders greets each performance. But something more tugs- the murmur of horrors- dirty old spirits I’ve got working for me. At least it seems they work for me.

Murmur my geisha geisha and find me something. Find me something for my spiders to meet. Not too large and not too meek.

A simple spell to set the spirits flooding out in the avenues and alleyways.

The rushed low and smoked across the concrete in thin valor trails. Black things from the underworlds or whatnot. My spectral guard dogs with grinning diamond teeth. My geisha geists. A rare gift from an old mentor. A rare thing, rare enough to keep me alive at night even on these streets. If only I could say the same of cars…

I passed the bar and splashed my boots amongst t he puddles in the crags those Irish guns called a parking lot and god damn me sideways and upside down but there stood before me a serious problem.

A rich fresh corpse lay in the road. A dead girl. Shot in the heart. A young heartless dead girl. Her eyes burning green chemical death, und earth and above loomed a robed figure and a pair of shifting blue shadows.

Anemic girls!

Anemic girls-
A vampires treat!
The taste of peanut butter
What men call nutter butter
Shall be your bloodthirst
And when you drink-
Awww man it tastes good
But yes like peanut butter
So if your into that
Come hit us up
You know where we at
Somewhere along Route 66
There’s a rest stop
A motel
And a Cracker Barrel
That’s where we kick it

Mortal coils

Clock drags on unreal anyway
In spite and to spite all shape and form
And bitter semblance proof
Solid concrete reality
Unreal never the less
For all it’s ticking and wheels spinning

These things they turn until they bend you
They spin your dreams away
Leaves fall to the ground
The flowers blossom
Children grow grey
And still these clock wheels

They are always turning
Until at last all springs end
And these frail mortal coils
Untether their touch on humanity

And in the darkness- unbend
And in the darkness- straighten again

Hello I’m seekingstories

Hello I’m seekingstories and Imma pirate
Not like the from Oceanside kind or pirate
Even though I do have blood in oceanside
Not the gang related kind mind you-
Although I do know a few who’d-
Well never mind that
But I tell you
I cannot handle all these things
Today I rode my bike through Compton
My girls mad at me
Because I don’t care when I die
I’ve died a million times
I’ll die a million more.


Skeleton standing at a view

The shadows linger and beckon
Down long corridors on windy nights
When all stands freer and your bones sing in the wind whistling free
Near hollow and empty and clattering
Near the hilt where they grip
A human sword and stand
With a soldiers grin
Facing the wind