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

 

 

 

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

I am of Course a Vampire

I am of course

A false facer

Black heart

Silver tongued

Heartbreak café

From pink sunsets

And green sea’s

I will not be good

For you

I will feel good

But eat your heart

And drink your soul

I come from Entertainment—

Moguls with ecstasy rolls for veins

I am of course—

Quite taken with you

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.

Baby I Love You So (Enough to Hold You Close- Enough to Let You Go)

She’s always telling me,

“Your poems are beautiful-

but they are so sad.”

And I look at you

or at your page

to see your face

your purple hair

that beauty and grace

the love I’ve felt

doesn’t ebbe or flow

it stays within me

there’s nowhere for it to go

I used to pour it into you

thick and hot and steaming

warm and viscous

like Zeus’s cum

but now its stuck in me

and there’s nothing to be done

I wrote this during training

and I did it in one go

because I love you that much

Baby I love you so

Put Down The Gun America

America loves drama and thumping dead things…

or extended metaphors for abusive drunks…

Ahh it’s both isn’t America?

You’re so cute the way you sit there quietly jaded and broken but smiling.

On the outside you are pristine little girl, you’ve got your smile, your angel’s wings and every thread you wear suits your every curve.

But I’m on to you America.

I know what you’re up to—

You just want to forget all that hell that follows close behind you!

Everywhere you go America— in the corners bars and buying cherry red sodas at the Chelsea druggists!

I see you— you sweep the room and scan for some face that might set you free.

Some shining single face that could take you by the hand and tell you everything is alright.

Or that its gonna be alright.

Some happy face that won’t hurt you, a pair of lips to carry you through the night.

I know what you are seeking America— I know— I seek it too.

In the drawn out parties and sad ballrooms of distended time when all the love you’ve ever felt is no more potent than an old nursery rhyme.

In the far away ghettos of frigid plateaus devoid of innuendo—

When any good thing is less than a memory—

When all your hopes and dreams taste like bitter goodbyes—

I know you America, for your truth and for your lies.

For the way you sit in the corner bar sipping on what?

The same cherry soda?

A Shirley Temple?

A Vodka tonic?

Liquid- reverie?

And you are neither blonde nor brunette but none of your friends are in between.

You are not Irish or Scottish, Chinese, Hindu, Nepali or Somali—

Neither West African nor South African or even English—

Not Russian or German or Welsh or Italian or Mexican or Spanish or Polish or Dutch—

Because you are all of these things America…

All of these things and more.

And America—

If you’d put that gun down I could really dig you baby.

If you took your knives and hooks out of me for a second and let me down off the rack—

If you quit putting me on your goddamn crucifix—

If you’d just never put another soul on that thing—

America, I could really love you.