Note for D

You don’t love me and never did
all your words were lies
and on the night of your birthday I will
be holding another close
and wishing she was you
the strangest thing is that I still
love you
beyond all words
but you broke me in ways I cannot fix
and I know she can’t, even as we fuck and kiss
and is it weird that I feel this is cheating on you?
you who lied and concealed and in the end
did not love as you said you did
you who wished he would find someone else
so you could be with me?
you’ll forgive if I fuck her with your name on my lips
or forget as you have shown you can
I was ne’er more than some physical thing
in your mind or your heart
giving you what he never could
and yet I believed in those words you spoke
and it is my own fault
for believing and loving and yearning
I tried to hold on to some false hope
in my tears and my longing
and struggled to accept that you lied because
I always thought you so honest
but after all these days, all 346 of them
your deception is plain
but I will never wish you harm
and though abandoned will always love
though for the first time I do wish harm on another
it is not you and I would never
act on that
I love you still, as I prepare to hold someone close
and I wonder if you ever
think of me

Chanson pour Carrie

Baby I’m gun shy
but you got me right on the edge of my seat
so I’m gonna take a chance and fly
don’t be surprised if I’m tongue-tied when we meet

Baby I been through a lot of hell
and I know that you’ve been through more than your share
but maybe if we can hold hands for a spell
we can both find a way to be less scared

I find myself enchanted with your
Mona Lisa smile
and the way your eyes light up
and the sound of your voice
I find myself enchanted with your
gentle raindrop laugh
and the way you speak your mind
and the way you can rejoice
in the little things
in the little things

I ain’t asking that you heal me
and I know you too can heal your own self
but I know you’re tired and you’re hurting
but just maybe we can find a way to get off that shelf

So let me hold you close
we could find a way to be better than the past
I might be nervous and maybe you are too
I ain’t making any promises but I hope that this lasts

I find myself enchanted with your
Mona Lisa smile
and the way your eyes light up
and the sound of your voice
I find myself enchanted with your
gentle raindrop laugh
and the way you speak your mind
and the way you can rejoice
in the little things
in the little things

it’s the little things

Written today. I haven’t finished all the parts yet (still working on the upright bass and violin parts)


I’m in fear now, as long as it is until I leave
that the damage you did to me cannot be undone
but I’ll try with all my might
and she knows about us
and perhaps it is because she has been
in the same situation
with the same sort of broken heart

You were the best thing, that ever happened to me
but these long days shattered my spirit
so I will fly away for a while
until I leave for good, and maybe
if I hold her tight enough
we can both become whole
or some semblance of real

She is so like you, it is frightening to me
but she is not and I will never
be able to replace your love
or the lies you told me of it
but she is real and cares in a way
that perhaps you never did
and I must at least try

She likes my music and the way I sing
the phone calls and exchange of pictures
the talk of films and songs and poems
she feels my sadness and loss, and I feel hers
and perhaps in those moments of empathy
there is some way to bring us both to comfort
in the arms of sleep and dream

So I fly and when we fuck, in her bed where the moon streams in
I will not think of you nor she of him
but if we do we understand
and in gentle acceptance of sorrow
find the joy of which we have both been bereft
but time will tell and in time’s long days
we can seek to find that solace


I’ve filed the papers and am changing my name
because I am not who I was and never can be again
and maybe there is some irony that I am flying,
with the credit I had from the trip we couldn’t take
to Colorado last year,
and I am leaving on your birthday that I had so hoped
to be able to celebrate with you


I did nothing, those months ago
when I saw him crouched beside my car
when he slashed my tyre, failing to find the brake lines
in a blatant attempt to maim or murder
while he called help on mere words
in the fashion of the craven in all worlds
I will ever only respond with words
though they might be fashioned as weapons
I bide my time

L’amour est…

Love is a glass-shard hailstorm from clear blue skies
a poisoned chalice given with smiling eyes
a blade in the back wielded by devoted hands
a noose from a fixture in a darkened room

Love is still whispering your name in my ear
a hushed scream of despair in the witching hours
a rush of ill-formed rambling and song
a single sobbed breath for a photograph

Love is the sacred and the profane
a reverence for a plastic flower that dances in the sun
a flight to heaven and fall to hell
a natural disaster and a broken world

Love is the mercy of the executioner’s axe
a liberating imprisonment in formless chains
a graceless collapse to extinction
a darkness in the light

Love is the apex and the nadir
a blindness and a piercing stare that sees forever and nowhere
a height of unimaginable valour from which to fall
a depth without redemptive stairs

Love is a reason to live and a justification to die
love is a yearning for life and death and release
love is your picture still on the wall
love is the sound of your name

Unfinished (song)

I’ve fallen in this bottle and I’ve fallen in the creek
and I ain’t got no reason to be terrified or meek
the world is going crazy but it’s all around me
and when the race is run there’s only corpses in the breeze

the house is cold and empty and there ain’t never any light
making bathtub whisky that I drink without a fight
staring at the ceiling and nothing is alright
break my bones and break my name I don’t care but I just might

sing into the fire, sing into the well
ain’t never going nowhere but I’m going to hell
whisper to the crows, whisper to the wind
I never heard the warnings now I’m wallowing in sin

the bills ain’t getting paid and there’s a devil at the door
you told me that you loved me but I always loved you more
had too much to drink and I am laying on the floor
booze and cigarettes are leaking from my pores

guitars are sitting idle there ain’t never any room
to write the songs that pound my head like the coming of doom
there are reasons I cain’t fathom that I assume
so if you will excuse I must resume

singing to the fire, singing to the well
ain’t never going nowhere but I’m going to hell
whisper to the crows, whisper to the wind
I neve heard the warning now I’m wallowing in sin

This needs at least one more verse. Still a work in progress

Is love like this?

We can compare our scars and learn the language of the crows
listen in reverence as golden eyes gleam in firelight
I live in leather jackets and like to hear you sing
my torn jeans and faded stare some remnant of brutality

the crows sing in dissonant harmonies under spring and autumn sky
rain licks your face by the fireside glow
the embers sizzle near the bat flight darts
of evening perturbations

if you, dear, in this delicate moment
should deign to design, with unspoken word
some genius of word or thought
then speak truth to the powerless
and beholden to no god be spoke
nor in forged iron be broken

I live in leather jackets and the heat of the fire
you can count them hanging from the racks of our minds
boots stolen from unsuspecting masters
and the taste of Byron

You live in the glory of Wallace and of Pynchon
whose subtle prose and gloried flights make light
of the bat wings that surround
and the chaotic rambling I scrawl

yet love grows in this furious creation
the manic energy and held-back rapaciousness
of language unbound
under the sparkled eyes of corvid judges

if you, dear, in this moment or in this time
should deign to design such instances of thought
then I would or I should, in my humble acquiescence
be begun again
not rib nor clay nor fail-safe belief
but write or say


These are the things we leave behind
in vanity or consideration of forgiveness
and the ones I leave for you

the photographs that are mostly of you
and the memories of towering passion
and elegant devotion

the will and testament in your name
duly notarized and signed for reference
waiting on the day to come

the echoes of laughter and conversation
and the songs you never heard
fading in the empty rooms

the remnants of walks with hands held close
and kisses stolen in every sweet moment
the recollection of loving caresses

you probably think of the madness
that took me in my grief and despair
but these are softer things I leave

the unused trip we were to take
that fateful day itself, to be entwined
in tender arms those days and nights

the letter by the bed, your name on the front
with heart-felt words and sincerest reverence
consecrated in your name

these are the things I leave behind
in lament and mourning
the ones I leave for you

I’m torn as to what I should do. I’m more than tempted to turn down the offer I got to move south and make music. But it’s an option. So is remaining in this area. Or returning to the desert I loved. Or simply vanishing from all existence and all contact, untraceable and forgotten. Becoming impossible to contact or find to any I have known, family or what remains of my friends. There is much temptation in that, and I know none would notice me gone for days or weeks, nor yet miss me in any meaningful way. A lot about that is appealing. I’ve already been forgotten by not just the one who mattered the most but by near everyone else I knew as well.


I’m collecting the souls of the people I knew
the ones who mattered to me, although there are few
in small glass bottles and kept on a shelf
they refract the light from the window
in rainbow prisms of scattered luminosity
yours is pink and it dances the light
in patterns on the wall

I write songs to the souls, especially yours
in the vain hope of prayers answered
I wonder if they listen as I sing, in broken tones
those melodies I’ve written for only their perception
crawling sounds of truth in music
songs of sorrow and of love believed
drifting to entropy in the air

I mumble pleas to the souls on their shelf
supplications and appeals
for unlistening remnants of divinity
in those reliquary bottles of the past
staring vacant at the blush from yours
with eyes of hazel solitude
unrivaled in their empty sorrow