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

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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.

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