Ghost Town

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So I dropped off the face of the planet for a while, which really isn’t a big deal since I am often in contact with the members of my loyal readership. Getting back to my imaginary singer-songwriter life, this is a piece I wrote recently, inspired by the death of a grandfather of a friend of mine. I really didn’t know him well at all, so a I said, this is just “inspired” by it… he was from a really small community which I often visited in the summer with my friend.
Ghost Town 
In the place I was born there stands a fishing boat by the sea    
And that little fishing boat once belonged to me    
And when my days on it  earning my living were done
I passed that fishing boat on to my son
Oh the place where I come from is dazzlingly pretty
tucked away from the bustle of the fast-paced city
But nowadays that’s where all the young ones go
where money’s easier to come by and time goes less slow
Ghost town, Ghost town
The soil on which I’ve grown
and where I raised my own
is taking its last breaths
Ghost town
Well my son still takes good care of my fishing boat
on warm summer days he comes to visit and take it out
to show his daughters the wonders of the sea
the only thing left tying both generations to me
And no one’s set foot in this church for many a year
though my children went to mass and were educated here  
And all the faces around me continue to age
when we’re gone there’ll be no one left to turn the page
Ghost town, ghost town
the soil on which I’ve grown
and where I’ve raised my own
is taking its last breaths
Ghost town
Well when my wife died, under this ground she was laid
I thought back on our lives, hopes, the promises we made
some came true, some were buried with her in the sand
I still remember her fading, the last grip of her hand
Well I know that I’ll be joining her soon
I often think about it from the window of my room
Though I can no longer see the beach or the sea
in this resting home, brick’n’stone is all that surrounds me
Ghost town, ghost town
the soil on which I’ve grown
and where I’ve raised my own
is taking its last breaths
Ghost town
In the place I was born there stands a fishing boat by the sea
and that little fishing boat still belongs to me
but the day will come when it rots and no one will care
except perhaps the ghosts who will still wander there                                                 

Darling Basil

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18 isn’t too old to still have secret dreamworlds, I hope, and I inhabit a dreamworld in which I am a singer/songwriter (I can’t play an instrument to save my life, by the way.) The following I categorize as a "semi-poem", a term I use for something that lacks the structure of a poem, but can’t really be said to be song lyrics, seeing as it goes to no particular rhythm and has no musical accompaniment.  This was inspired by the 1976 film production of "The Picture of Dorian Gray" and seeing as Jeremy Brett plays Basil, he’s truly the magnetic one, not Dorian. Chalk up the inaccurate detail regarding where Basil is stabbed as poetic licence.
Darling Basil
Here you lie upon the bloodstained stone
Mercilessly left for dead
Killed by the dagger of your one love
When he pierced it through your head
It’s so frightfully cold in here
And for far too long I’ve lived in fear and dread
Can’t find any warmth or solace when I take to my bed
Sleep should cure my sickness
But I’m haunted by visions of you
I still see your beautiful grey eyes
and hear your impassioned words as you pour out your soul
can you not understand
your vulnerability lies in his cruel hands
and how I wish you’d confessed
to one deserving of your tenderness
for I would have sat for you any day
indeed everyday
while my life away with you
and had you regarded me with such reverence
and barely contained pained longing
God praise the circumstance
I would have found myself in your arms
He was everything you should have loathed
a brute beast clothed in God-like form of man
You lived a life of serene melancholy
while he pursued vain pleasures and selfish folly
You were born to create
breathe life into the canvas blessed enough
to be touched by your gentle brush
He was born to hate
charm, destroy, manipulate
this truth came upon you far too late
I still see your beautiful grey eyes
imagine them filling with terrified surprise
and hear your impassioned voice escalate into pleading cries
can you not understand
where you saw splendour and innocence of youth
I saw darkness and deceit
and took you as the one enlightening truth
for truth is imperfection
how I shuddered at his idyllic complexion
and felt sickened at each angelic grin
certain that it hid a morbid sin
(but where were they hiding?)
and how cruel, through your devotion you became hapless fool
your greatest work becoming his shameful tool
through which he maintained his disguise
and I still see
I still see
I still see your beautiful grey eyes
*Note: the "grey eyes" theme repeated throughout is entirely coincidental, and not related to Dorian’s last name. If wondering how it’s possible for one’s eyes to be grey (as I used to), I’ve discovered it occurs when someone’s eyes are a very faint shade of green, appearing at times to be grey.