death of the butterfly collector/the end of the trail

Here is the one, er, and only thing of substance I did on my nascent butterfly collector blog, ie., lyrics/writings for my longtime imaginary band, one emaciated reckoning. These "songs" are culled from their latest album -- penned by its mythical protagonist, Thomas P. Canton, "The End of The Trail."

One emaciated reckoning… the end of the trail

1 graham gorman
2 eddie colquhoun
3 roger gene
4 graham oates
5 peter jones
6 john case
7 walter preisz
8 simon minors
9 ian mclean
10 bob lohrman
11 franco pertot
12 dieter busch
13 the end of the trail

“graham gorman”

sorrow rests in a bed of straw,
sorrow lays on heads of sons.
dread is days
of just being average,
dead is days of being ignored.
suffer the son
you’d prayed for a god,
spite the spit
on bottoms of lips.
this is venom
this is not anger;
this is inside
far too deep to show,
let alone ever tell.
bite the lip
and suck it up,
divest yourself of real
and imagine yourself still the boy
you wish you’d had instead.
everything ahead
and nothing behind,
clouds were dream depots
and not passing time.
god dwells in heads of boys,
the devil lays on calendar pages.


“eddie colquhoun”

eddie colquhoun,
promotion is soon.
you do what you can,
oblivious to limits
by which they define you,
with wicked tongue
butchery
and endless drink.
life of the party
but slow as a gimp,
others preceded you
and others shall follow.
it’s simple,
like you,
to get away with it all
in song and alcohol;
to never be taken seriously
even when you mean what you say
as though your life depends upon it.
eddie colquhoun,
with dreams of promotion
but so much closer to relegation.
eddie colquhoun,
if you only knew….



“roger gene”

innocence lost
is your good fortune found,
the devil you knew
is the devil you have become.
your prayers to the third kind
have brought you this;
wide eyes and dreams
to shut and to quash.
chasing tail lights to a world
away from this world,
the windows won’t open
and the doors they are locked
except from the outside.
you stifle a laugh
and scratch your beard
salted in childish tears
and kernels of popcorn.
you churn your mistakes
and make them not matter
in rainstorms
in parks
and dirty sofas
and shag carpets.
you are the sum
of your deeds
and you drink
and you drink
and you drink.
the sun never shines
in your living room,
yet the heat is just too much
for you to leave well enough alone.
the heat is far too much
for you to ever be any good
at all.



“graham oates”

she could survive,
but for what?
so far away from home
and the means
by which she had a hold on him,
she’d talk and wear nothing
but mostly she’d talk
about nothing.
her man was better
than he knew he ever was,
because believing in that
made her feel better about herself.
he was tall
and his smile
made women melt
and men stare at the floor,
but as long as she was beside him,
she was on top of the world.
but it was never like that for him.
even when she’d wear
next to nothing,
he was still next to her
with her talk about nothing.
even if he knew nothing
more than her endless words
that would bore him so much,
even he knew enough
to say nothing at all
and just smile…
to make the women melt
and the men reach for another beer.



“peter jones”

television on
beyond biscuits and news at ten,
you closed the door behind you
and set out to see the world.
but you couldn’t see
the hole in the ground,
now could you?
you couldn’t see the caution horses
sleeping on their sides
fail to warn,
now did you?
falling down,
it just hit you then
how you had to stop
beating yourself up;
eating yourself inside
for who and what you are.
only then did you realize
you must lead your own life
and not for your mum.
but the pain
of the tragic recognition of self
got physical,
and then you went mental.
and so mum
put all your toys in the attic,
and threw out all your shoes.
and then mum smiled
and brought out lemon biscuits
… and this you did enjoy,
as you plugged yourself in
to the tele
and laughed aloud
for ever having thought about yourself
and a dream
to see the world
as it really is,
because you already knew.



“john case”

years ago,
you stopped asking why.
head held high
even in defeat,
you loved to love
and took as a given
that everyone strives
for the light of goodness;
for the light of kindness.
maybe you wouldn’t change the world
or write epic poems
from the sofa of your living room
in a suburb made of plastic,
but you could love
because it’s all you ever knew.
you stopped asking why
he wouldn’t shake your hand,
you stopped staring
out the window
at the clouds passing by
and the squirrels
chasing each other dizzy
as you wondered
why you wandered
to offer that man your hand.
you were an open book
so obvious,
but obviously kind.
the stare he cast
and rage he exhaled
froze all you knew
and thought you could know.
the cold was never colder
than the day he changed your world,
now bad spirits
pervade your world view
and bathe your optimism in booze,
and the simple life
in anger
apathy
and dread.



“walter preisz”

the doors of perception
depend on your perspective.
hours of need
become night after night
of retreat.
where is the inspiration?
color the dawn
with the shapes in your mind,
then cling to the moon;
no one cares.
words unspoken
…ingenious;
no one here has ears.
distant laughter
surrounded by voices
the walls are nearer;
where is the air?
smoke circles
like Indian signals;
distress calls
in someone’s mother’s tongue.
no one here has eyes
or secret decoders
or the time of day.
drawn breath
painted life;
time,
where is the music?



“simon minors”

oceans away
from kippers for breakfast,
lick the salt
around another margherita glass;
then stare in all directions.
goofy
like an unmanned train,
hitch a ride
across america
with empty pockets
empty glass,
but an accent
worth its weight in silver.
motherless child,
motherless children
never shine like the sun,
so you never did.
neon signs
cheap motels
and the stench
of falling on your face,
if you don’t speak out
then you will have nothing.
if you don’t break out
then you are nothing.
trace your face
on the back of the girl
and break out…
laughing.






“ian mclean”

trees laid bare
frozen breath
and alone.
atmosphere
soft narcotics
and flight.
engineer,
there are no engines
and the design is corrupt.
highlander,
we have no clothes;
only bagpipes.
we gave
took nothing
and yet we are discarded.
we are kind
well, we were kind
but we’re modernized
accessorized
and betrayers of nature.
we are humble
and we have no stomach
to fight the fight.
highlander,
we cannot helm this family
but we can run.
drinking
cleansing…
cue the music.
in october
we’d listen,
but understand nothing.
electricity
sparks
we are aliens….


“bob lohrman”

shhhhh…
no wake
no heart
no mind.
the endless summers
are no longer peopled by youth,
and so the summers end
so much sooner.
sick
regrets became mountains,
and though you imagined you stood
atop the highest, snowy peak,
you never learned how to ski.
regrets creep up
like spiders to flies
ensnared in webs
as you were in life.
how does it feel
to feel nothing?
what is it like
to forget the voices
of your children
when they were children
and the music blared so loud
you could not distinguish
the priceless few thoughts you ever did summon?
smiling, laughing
you wore them like cheap suits
as life wore you
like a has been
before your time.
as life wore you
out.
suck in, spit out
suck up, spit out.
old uniforms, new uniforms
decaying buildings
demolition crews….
your absence
means absolutely nothing.



“franco pertot”

piano
in silence
pebble
still water
take cover
behind clouds
like a yellow moon,
but cast a different light;
keep trying.
count backwards
blindfolded laughter
the funeral director waits
and he waits.
the trail will end
but you can’t see it.
take cover
keep playing
like boys
on hot rooftops
tall fields
and in your mind.
wrists without watches
at war with time,
suspend your belief
until she says no
tomorrow,
and she will.
the son doesn’t get older
only bigger;
the sun overhead
is no different,
and still the clouds come
and so you surely must remain
as you were
again.
believe it
will it
drink to it
sleep to it
cry to it,
until north is no more
and trying is pointless.
until your glass is empty
and you cry like never before.

“dieter busch”

there is no feeling,
then you kill memory
and hope to snuff out hope.
the trail is long
step after another
and up and down
a mountain,
but the pain has got nothing
on the heft of your breath,
and the flowers
may as well be dead
to eyes too distracted
by their singular focus
on the black and the white.
you set out in the sixties
the sun in the west
laughing and loving
before you knew what they meant.
loss
means never having to say
you are sad,
and never seeing the world
just as the world.
like a hand that can’t write
and a dog that can’t bite,
you just are.
feed you
pour you drinks;
pick you up
and place you there
so you are not here.
keep the worker in line
with job after job
so he doesn’t have to think.


“the end of the trail”

at the end of the night
behind bloodshot eyes,
you douse your last smoke
in the bottom of your last shot glass,
look up at your reflection
and see a clown
staring back at you.
great pretender,
you have faked your way through
another vagabond day.
when the smoke settles
and the last call bell has tolled,
you somehow recollect
a way home
where you somehow muster life
to wash your obvious face
down the drain
and cast away your indistinct clothes,
but still the tears do linger.
she won’t see them
but they are there,
and you wonder tonight
like all others
how you will ever sleep.
you’ll picture the end of the trail
and be glad there are no crossroads
because you fare so miserably
when confronted with options.
eventually you might nod off
until you need to piss,
but by then there is too much light
and even you can see
that you have but one choice
when you reach the end of the trail,
and that is to turn back.
you could do it
and you know it
but you are too scared,
and you just know damn well
you’ll hear the alarm bell ringing
in a moment or two,so what would be the use?