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

Godzilla- it’s no lie!

you’re not so secret 

walking down with your hair on fire

your dress in shreds 

hunger in your eyes

your not so secret

like you never tried 

burning down cities

ending peoples lives

your not so secret 

Godzilla- its no lie!

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.

Seventy-Five

Image

SEVENTY-FIVE

by Ian Galbraith

an Ivan Brixton Story

They woke up and smiled at the sun.  The cool air came rolling in off the sea crisp and clean as you please.  The orchids in harvest no longer- the autumnal switched for spring and birth.  I was a newborn in the age of predator drones and also peppermint lattes.  Things were great.  Every time I went out I had a swell time.  I went to school and I came home.  Did what my folks told me.  I did it all alright.  Finally I finished with school and everything, I went out to a bar to celebrate.

The place was called daffodil and it hardly smelled right for a rose like me but all the other graduated blossoms were heading in and I decided to follow my friends.   It was a nice bar.  I got a cool glass of spring water because you can get that in bars around my town.  I know, not everyone is this lucky.  I suppose all I can do is smile right?

Anyway we’re all sipping ours and one of my friends, Harold he is playing games with the sun heads, flipping coins and fooling at cards.  I play a few rounds with Harold but my hearts not in it.

“You look restless.”  Harold says.”

I nod my head but I am miles away.  A million miles away probably two billion if its even a foot but if its two billion… then its a lot.  And now my head which I’m done nodding and now I’m holding in place, that head is sort of spinning… then I see this flower at the end of the bar is she’s drinking alone-

“Deal me out Harold.”

“Whatever Frank.”

“Thanks.”

I walking over to her feeling like pollen in spring.  Feeling fresh like the day I was born.  I feel immaculate when she turns and smiles.  She winks.  I’m totally grabbing a seat next to her.  She is an absolute rose.  Not even like that loser in Gatzby was supposed to be neither- I’m talking solid rose right now.  She wasn’t some lame lousy Daisy but a real live rose.  She sure had petals to squeeze!

“Hey.” I say.

“Heyyy.” she says maybe sort of buzzed.

“Imma Frank.” I say faking a wee slur.

“Heyya Frank immma Dolly.”  She says.

“I’m in love with you Dolly, do you feel it?”  I ask.

“Yes,” she says and shudders, “It’s overwhelming.”

“It makes my soul quiver to tell the truth.”

“It’s like telepathic alchemy drugs.”  She says.

And with that we leave hand in hand.  Roses walking Petal in petal talking that sweet- sweet roses talk.

Years later we’re all settled down and something happens.  I mean they always said it would but I never thought- well I’ll just say it plain.  We got caught by the Kreacherkin.  They took us.  A dozen of us and a few of our neighbors too.  They stuffed us all into wet refrigerator trucks and shipped us off to god knows where…  It was so dark inside man I nearly lost it but I had Dolly by my side and I had to keep up my rep as a stud.  I had to be a Rose and take care of my Rose, even if we were all just stuck senseless in plastic bags with our roots cut off and tears dripping down our limbs.

Finally light reached us and the strong hands of the Kreacherkin pulled us from the truck.  They wrapped us up together in tight bundles of twelve and shoved our feet into little plastic test tubes.  The Kreacherkin know no bounds nor decency.  I didn’t believe they were real until they stuffed us- wrapped in plastic inside another one of their sinister cold closet ice chest death traps.

[several hours later]

A dozen roses lay on a counter.  Behind the counter a girl in her twenties with leather pants and a nose ring works the register.  She is constantly moving between the fridge containing pre- ordered flower orders and the espresso machines at the shop.  People come up to her- they pick up flowers or coffee, sometimes both.  A young couple approaches the counter during a lull in business-

“Hi I have an order waiting.”  The boy says.

“What was the name?”  Asks Counter girl

“Ivan.”  The boy says.

“12 roses and a mocha?”

“That’s me.”  He says and smiles.  He squeezes his girlfriend’s hand.

“The total is 75.00.”

“Oh no!”  His girlfriend exclaims.

“What?”

“That’s two much for flowers!  Far too much for these!  They’re only roses Ivan…”

“Crazy.”  The girl behind the counter mutters and goes out back to clean up for the day.

And so the young couple leave and they don’t buy a single thing.  The flowers lay on the counter and there Frank and Dolly lay beside each other.  Frank- he feels alright- for now; but Dolly… Dolly is fading.  The soft is leaving her.  The goodness drips slow across an unattended flower in an independent coffee shop where just now there are no customers.  The girl behind the counter returns.

“Fuck it.”  She says and tosses them out back in the dumpster.

Every morning and then some

My friend dr. Nix used to have one waiting for him. Every morning when he woke up. Waiting.

Man he would think to himself, just -man and then he would think to himself, sort -what am I doing here? Oh yes I’m doing this- and then he would, because it would be right there and waiting for him.

Afterwards he would blow his nose, stand up and walk around. A rush of blood to the head and break feast served- he stared out the window of his color tv. Things were more beautiful in there and they were safer too. In there he was god and the coloured skies would bend to his pleasure. Outside the throne even was up for grabs.

Any way the days would go by and he kept doing things that way, he would do them his way. I saw him now and again. Once and a while I even went up to San Luis obisbo and saw him there. Busy and crazy with some girl. Holding a chemistry job and taking classes. His habit flew on fine with everything. It was a mad world anyway.