I see your hand waver, now you're faced with a ghost,
not the raw, killer features that were nailed to a post.
Just an old, dying cowboy, trying hard to play host.
There's a chair if you've mercy, and a story...come close.

The liquor of youth lights a fire in you, son.
Puts that flame in your eyes and the heat in your lungs.
I wore that expression, before your thread was spun,  
so let me unload, you can shoot when I'm done.

Growing sore in my saddle as the nag became lame,  
I sold off my shooters, then re-mortgaged my name.
But tease out the creases, we're exactly the same;
two felons of fortune, wanting someone to blame.

See, I never got settled, didn't take me a wife.
Sailed a ship in a bottle, on the edge of a knife.
I put stock in misfortune and invested in strife,
took diminished returns, paid no interest to life.

But corralling cattle won't hold them for long,
they're born to roam free where they know they belong.
Soon the lipstick and whiskey begins to taste wrong,
as the backroom piano sighs its monotone song.

By a tangerine sunset I scraped off my boots
and considered an orchard as it set down its roots.
As a buzzing of insects idly nurtured its fruits,
I was deafened by silence. My own garden was mute.

So I clutched at the earth as I fell to the floor,
to ask for forgiveness, as you darkened my door.  
Seems redemption's eloped, like a gold digging *****.  
Just a name on a tombstone, for a few dollars more.

Quite an end would be fitting for a fool so innate,  
who has squandered his years until the hour is late.
Son, unholster your weapon and wipe off the slate,
I beg execution, swift vengeance,  But wait...

Did I catch my reflection as it fell from your face?
Like a hound in a heatwave, too tired to give chase?  
Son, the trail that you're riding is easy replaced.
You can stand in the sunlight, or come sit in my place.

At first the air seems too dry;
Then you see the mist --
A small town on the horizon;
You decide to ride on,
And give Father's headstone a last kiss.

You find yourself wondering why
Anyone would stay here.
Some of those who passed before
Left their mark on rotten doors
Memories strangely dear.

Love's a gamble in a ghostly town;
It could move you, swift or slow.
You unholster your heart,
Wonder when the shooting will start,
But you already know.

Dozens to go and only one down,
Riding through a town of slaughter,
You're both alive and dead,
Mute bullets whistle by your head:
Are you a killer or a daughter?

He was here once, before you knew
About the emptiness outside.
Still you followed him.
His face was harsh and grim.
And he told you to leave or hide.

Love that's cold, deadly and true
Is the easiest and hardest kind.
You can **** him or just love him;
You'll never know much else of him,
But he’ll never leave your mind.

Dawn bursts over the sharpest peak
And the town streets fill with gold;
It’s the only kind this place will ever see.
You know that soon, you and he
Will shoot each other or fold.

Yet, love in a ghost town always dies,
Killed before it can start.
Spanish ladies even now wear mourning veils
And the lovesick couples' faces pale
When you shoot each other through the heart.

19/08/2023

Hapless who strain,
voice and words for people,
hapless who drill
thinking it's lethal,
this folly encourages,
the ethos of silence,
on paper, counterfeit order stands,
while hastened thoughts simmer
in a cauldron of violence.

If I catch sight of you
with a pavulon vial,
I'll behead you for cheating,
engage, fight me,
draw the trenchant blade,
low profiled, distant, and shallow,
instead of laughter from the coffin.
Pull out your prosthetic faith,
before hissing Christ swallows
the descending heaven prospect.

Give me an authentic shoot-out,
where you bleed till death,
give me a duel,
light up a matchstick,
entourage with a
black powder keg.

On a formica table,
you roll the dice
if you lose,
whip yourself,
and one archangel dies.
If I lose,
tie a bangalore
around filthy neck,
and my words of nonsense
will meet a disgusted hail marrow crusade.

Where I challenged,
pleasingly conforming chains,
we'll answer who follows
a pale reflection of faith.
So pick up the glove
before it taints,
silence isn't priceless,
words foreshadow the pain,
one has to die
for the other's blemishes,
deception, venom, or vain.

Unholster courage,
gas me the rage,
ignite the fire,
matchstick awaits,
assume the form of a neophyte,
bare cognition flickers,
just hold my iron-branded hand,
till clash finds muffled eyes,
and clots reach one of our brains.
Just hold my hand,
the dice will turn into Pontius Pilate's
pointing finger, whose candle fades,
just hold my hand,
one ends up shrouded
in blasphemy cloak,
anointed pariah,
yet authentic instead.

Or end up like Sisyphus,
with a bespoken
boulder-like cross,
bland, spineless,
stripped of sense.