A Little Altercation Down at the Bucket of Blood

In a haze of wine and whiskey
there was a new face in the Kid's bar.
With an eye for the ladies, and a gut full of drink
trouble was never really far.

He was dancing with the Kid's girl
down at the Bucket of Blood,
And the kid didn't take kindly to that,
down at the Bucket of Blood.

"Why don't you wanna share, mister?
There's enough to go around.
You can't keep 'em all to yourself, arsehole
Not when I'm in town."

"I don't keep notches on my bedposts
I keep them on my gun
And if you keep running your mouth off, stranger
you're bound to be the next one."

"I don't care about your notches
I don't care about your gun
And the thing you'll find with my mouth, mister,
is that it's always on the run."

The Kid squeezed the trigger hard
left a corpse face down in the mud.
But the Stranger had squeezed his faster.
And laid his claim on the Bucket of Blood.

A Grey Death

Even the half decent ones are being laid to rest. I read The Wasp Factory half-drunk by candlelight until it gave me nightmares. It was a strange period for me. When my eyes grew tired of reading someone else's words, I would drag out my old Remington, load it with paper, fiddle with the ribbon and start feverishly pounding at the keys in hope that I could get some words down of my own. Hoping to form sentences and paragraphs that would eventually mount up to some kind of story, something meaningful. It never really went well and the anguish of that would often give me nightmares too. I'd give up pretty quickly and would see it as a good time to sleep. To crawl between the sheets and try to get some kind of rest before my sub-conscious would start to haunt me. I got nightmares every night. Pretty bad ones that would make we wake up, bolt upright, sometimes shouting, sometimes screaming, but always sweating. There’d be so much my sheets and pillows would be soaked through. The damp made it hard to fall back to sleep, but that didn't bother me too much. I was never sure I wanted to face the terrors again, but I knew I needed the rest. I'd take a long drink of stale, four day old water from my bedside table, lay back, and hope that morning would come soon.

The dreams never seemed so bad in the daylight. Come morning, I didn't want to leave the comfort of my bed. The beckoning call of porcelain was my only motive to ever move. If I was lucky it was just to piss or shit, but in those days it seemed mostly that I needed to vomit. To then just lay there on the floor, counting the tiles and wondering what was wrong with me and what I would need to do to remove the taste of old beer from my mouth and the burn from my throat. I'd slip sluggishly down the stairs and try to justify to myself that it was okay to line my coffee with bourbon just to take the edge off the day. I knew food was the sensible choice but there was rarely ever anything in my fridge that I fancied. I tried frying eggs, but ultimately I would end up scraping the contents of the frying pan straight in to the bin, overwhelmed with disappointment and a lack of appetite. I fantasised of escaping. Getting out and embracing the world away from the confines of myself.

Outside was grey. It was autumn, when the better poets were telling me the world was alive and on fire. Multiple tones of reds, golds and browns could be seen everywhere, but all I could see was a grey death. The sky was grey. The ground was grey. The buildings were grey. What little wildlife around was dying or hiding. I was told autumn was beautiful, but no amount of beauty could save the world from the passing of time and the arrival of a new season. Death was everywhere. I was better off inside and so there I stayed, not wanting to leave the kitchen.

On one occasion, while hunting down the spatula for my daily futile attempt at cooking breakfast, I came upon a carving knife that I never used. I pulled it from the drawer and held it up to admire its shimmering power. A killing machine designed to tear flesh apart, to pull meat from bones. I then imagined sinking its sharp point into my own skin and tearing out the veins. I wondered if I had the grit and determination to go through with such an act. The worst thing that could happen would be that it would hurt - a lot - but that it would soon be over. Then there would be nothing and nothing else would matter. I had always lacked courage, and flirting with this element of danger ignited something inside of me. I stared longingly into the blade, catching my own reflection. My eyes were wide and dark, my cheeks hollow. My hair was once thick and full of life, was now thin, limp and greasy. I questioned what I had become. I immediately grew tired of all the self-involved bullshit and let the knife slip from my fingers. The clang of metal on tile echoed through the kitchen and through my head. I needed to get laid. Above all, I really needed a steak and just to write something decent.

More of Everything in Front of You

With summer rays burning hot on my skin, the metal of the bench seat was surprisingly cool. It was the first bench I came to and by far the best. Sat atop a hill I became a king of this world. The grass rolled steeply down, thick and richly green, until it finally flattened out to where kids were running around, kicking a ball back and forth, overlooked by tree tops, which soon turned into the roofs of people's homes with chimney stacks exhaling plummets of smoke as if they were on a lunch break. What sort of maniac would light a fire on a day like today, I could not tell, but the smoke rose and disappeared into the eternal blue sky. It was a crisp, flawless summer sky that went up and on and around until it eventually ended up behind you. You could easily ruin your neck trying to take the whole thing in.

Right here from my recreational crow's nest I could see everything there was to see and nothing at all. The wildlife that lived in the shadow of the trees was hidden from me. The ants and worms crawling between the blades of grass were hidden from me. The walls of houses concealed daytime bums, resting night shift workers, plumbers, housewives and audacious thieves. Even the greatest of stars, planets and entire solar systems were hidden beneath a thin veil of blue. The whole world was alive and it was in existence right before my eyes. I leant back on the bench and let the sun beat hard and hot against my face.

It felt like a good time to get lost and so I reached for my book. It was a collection of poems by some writer I had never heard of before but I guessed by his name he was probably of central European descent. I flicked through the pages and read a passage aloud to myself.

“His arms were ink-stained displays of 3a.m. madness,
cast out with the world moving beneath yr feet.
That time of night when your eyes are opened
to see more of everything that is already in front of you.
A moment immortalised in patterns on skin
In red, black & blue.”

I held the book lightly in my hands and started to wonder. I had picked this book up from some second hand store in town. It was the kind that had dust everywhere and the aroma of vanilla hanging in the air. I thought about all the people who had held this book before me. I studied it in my hands. The spine was creased but only half-way. It had never been finished. Was it so bad that nobody could stomach it to the end? Would I be the first to read its final pages? Perhaps I was only the second owner of the book. In my head I imagined the book being deposited at the store by a broken hearted widow, throwing out the last words her husband ever read. A great pain stuck in my chest as I gripped the book a little tighter. The possibilities were endless. I shifted uncomfortably on the bench knowing that hundreds had sat here before, each with their own thoughts and each with their own visions. I wondered about the other grand conversations and views absorbed before me from this very spot. My brain was becoming curious, so there was no chance of me being able to get any reading done. I took the old, dog-eared five dollar bill I used as a bookmark and slid it between the pages to guard my spot. My mind was ready to wander and the potential of that crumpled five dollar bill soon fascinated me. I leant back on the bench, closed my eyes and let my brain run. My feet needed the rest.

A Tall Tale

Robert didn't have much in this world, but he did have work and he did have his guitar. It was more than a lot of other people had at the time, but it still wasn't enough for him. Robert wanted to be better and he wanted to be recognised - traits that were not uncommon in other men. Robert also had a tall tale to tell.

The moon hung full and bright in a clear, purple night sky. Robert walked alone, taking slow and deliberate steps to ensure he didn't upset the dirt on the road beneath his feet and fill the air and his lungs with dust. As he walked, he clung to the guitar that dangled at his side, wary of the flimsy nature of the strap he had made to carry it on his shoulder. He had crafted it himself out of spare string and it dug deep into his flesh. He was fully aware that the knots he managed to tie were not particularly tight, but they were the best knots he could muster with his unusually large hands.

The weight of his guitar and a hard day's work were beginning to take its toll on Robert and he desperately needed distraction from his blistered fingers and the ache that clung to his spine. Robert started to whistle. It was a slow, mournful tune, full of lament and regret. He soon forgot about the world around him and disappeared into the blues. He was blissfully unaware of the stranger approaching him from the junction up ahead.

"That's a mighty fine looking guitar you've got there, Mister."

Robert looked up at the tall stranger stood before him. His wide-brimmed hat not only cast his face into shadow but seemed to spread the darkness over his entire body.

"Mind if I take a little look at it? I'll be real gentle."

A bead of sweat formed at Robert's temple as he reluctantly handed his guitar over to this seemingly mystical character stood by the roadside. He couldn't bear the thought of losing his one earthly possession; the one item he relied so heavily upon to pass his spare time; the object he frequently lusted over and was so eager to master. Despite his apprehension, Robert freely - willingly - handed him his guitar and watched as the man steadily re-tuned the machine before strumming a few chords drenched in melancholy. The stranger meekly returned the guitar and without uttering a single word of thanks or farewell, turned on his heel and started walking down the road heading south. Robert gazed, almost dumbfounded, as the stranger disappeared into the depths of the night.

"A ghost?"
"Straight up."
"A ghost?"
"Yeah, Sonny. A ghost. Or something like that. Somethin' out of this world."
"A ghost? You're tellin' me you met a ghost, or somethin' outta this world, up at those crossroads and he just decided to show you how to play the guitar? That somehow he made you some kinda better player?"
"Sure thing. He was as real as you are sittin' in fronta me; as real as the cornbread and beans in my gut."
"That's a mighty tall tale, Robert, and I ain't too sure I believe it."
"You callin' me a liar, Sonny-Boy?"
"Naw, I'm callin' you a drunk. You bin suckin' down whiskey outta open bottles agin ain't ya? I tole you notta do that. You cain't ever be sure what's in 'em."
"I'm tellin' you I was sober, and I'm tellin' you I'm tellin' the truth, so help my soul. An' I've tole you before; never, ever knock a bottle outta mah hand, Boy."

It was sound advice given by old Sonny-Boy; advice that Robert would have been wise to adhere to. Several months later, Robert met his end drinking whiskey from an already open bottle that had been laced with strychnine. It had been passed to him by a stranger in a wide-brimmed hat. He was only twenty seven when he died. With his soul taken - lost - his blues still echo through the ages. They cry out from the heart of America. His songs can still be heard today, saving many a soul of the beaten, blue and downtrodden. The desperate ones, the unlucky ones, the misfortunate and the broken ones, they all still have a voice. They all still have the blues. Blues born from one man and his mighty tall tale.

The Train Rumbled On

The kid's pillow turned hard and cold and began to vibrate, waking him up. Lifting his head, he watched as the world outside blurred and disappeared behind him. Shaking his head lightly, the kid looked around to absorb his surroundings and gathered from the backs of chairs and the heads peeking out from above them that he was on a train. He immediately remembered the trip he had been reluctantly taken on.

As he awoke he became aware of the itch. His scar was fresh and he was reluctant to scratch. They had told him not to. They had told him it would heal better if he just left it alone, so he ignored it as best a kid could. He yawned hard and started to pick at the hard crust in the corner of his eye that formed while he was sleeping. Examining it closely, he rolled it into a little ball between his forefinger and thumb and without any hesitation or thought, offered it up to his tongue to taste it before wiping it on the seat beneath his leg. His mind was elsewhere. He stared vacantly out of the window at the countryside rolling by, gently tracing imaginary shapes on the window with his finger. He was getting hungry and was wondering how long he'd be stuck in this metallic tube for. He didn't want to think about his hunger but he couldn't help it. The train was eating the tracks beneath it while it rumbled along and he was jealous. He wanted something of his own to eat. The walls of his stomach had started to close in and it almost felt as though they were touching. It didn't even have the strength to growl at him anymore. His stomach was a wide open cavern with a lonely pool of acid resting in the bottom. He really needed food, and would take whatever he could get, fearing he may just have to leave his seat to do so.

The girl was nowhere to be seen, but this didn't surprise him. She was often running off, unannounced, on her own little secretive missions and maybe it was time for him to go on one of his own. He didn't want to come on this little trip; it was all her idea, so why should he sit around hungry and alone, waiting for her to return to feed him? It wasn't fair.

He didn't know how long it would be before she would return. If only she left him with some money. If only she had left him with something so he could go to the food carriage himself. He imagined the adventure, wandering alone between the rows of strangers. He'd reach the end of the carriage and use the big button to make the doors part with a roar. It would be just like on the spaceships on TV. Imagining it all made him feel ten feet tall. Then his stomach finally rumbled and all he felt was hunger. He no longer even noticed the itch.

Searching around the carriage longingly for help he noticed something on the floor. Sat revealing itself from beneath her seat was the shy snake of leather that was attached to her handbag. He couldn't believe it; she'd actually left it behind. He prayed to himself that she'd left her purse inside, too. He let out a little squeal as he reached for the bag. Finally he'd be able to get something to eat and anything would do. He promised himself that no matter what he found in the handbag, he'd spend it on something healthy. He promised to not spend it on sweets. He'd buy a sandwich. He'd buy fruit. Anything good for him that would make them proud, just as long as he could eat something.

He pulled the bag up onto his lap, eagerly dragging the zip open and reached inside. As he rummaged around, he inspected each item individually. Inside her bag he fumbled with various boxes of tablets that he knew not to touch and hairclips and scrunchies of all colours. He pulled her hairbrush out and laid it on the empty seat by his side. Delving back in, he pushed some little square foil cases out of his way and from beneath a pile of dog-eared train tickets and receipts uncovered an old pack of chewing gum. He valiantly fought the temptation to slip one in his mouth though, for he knew that chomping on it would only make him feel hungrier. Amidst all the little alien treasures and pieces of junk he discovered, he found no purse. He didn't even find a handful of old pennies.

The train rumbled on.

A Hat Without a Man

A cross I fashioned out of two sticks sits
in a pile of half melted snow.
A dirty hat grieves by its side, all alone
mourning the loss of the most patient man I will ever know.
Once worn with love - now empty - it rests on the floor.
A solitary tear hangs, frozen, from it's brim.
Now that is the saddest sight I have ever seen.

Play the Game

My faith in love is blind.
Not that it matters,
she never shows her face around here anyway.
That's if I'd even recognise her.
I couldn't care.
I'm flat broke and blind drunk.
So I turn my attention elsewhere
and Lady Luck is looking good as ever.
I can always find the time
to settle down
to a game of cards.
I can always find the money to lose too.

I won the first few times - got hooked.
Lost a game - never looked back.
but I'm playing just the same,
I can't see where I'm going wrong.
Then again, I am blind drunk.
And now flat broke.
More so than before.

Before I know it,
it's the crack of dawn and
my ribs are cracked and
I'll need three stitches above my eye.
My car keys are gone,
they kept those for themselves when
they left me in the street.
What's worse, my car is too
worthless to repay my debt.
Sober minded with
my hung-over eyes sun-blinded, I
climb to my feet with one thing on my mind.
Eggs & bacon.

I'll need the strength to play the game again.