Monday, October 31, 2022

S.B. Watson


Montecristo. My Northwest Lodge.
Two messengers of death I saw.
Two chances given to change my fate.
But I spent my cash, and screwed around,
And drove my wheels, and drank and ate,
And when the final hammer fell,
And the final bullet bore,
It donned on me too late.

And now I stand within the sea,
Shod in cement and sand,
My blood run cold and hard,
My swollen eyes forever searching
In this murky land,
And finding only silty Hell
And Death to hold my hand.

He was there at Montecristo with my wife,
That painting of hers hanging there
Behind them like, like a burning eye,
Watching me watch them.
I should have killed them there and then.
But I was good, and now I’m here,
My death-mask face a frozen leer.
I sway alone in cold, deep currents,
Breathing icy-water air.

She’s all his now. And my money.
See if I damn care.

S.B.'s YouTube video reading of "Ghost":

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S.B. confesses: "I am an occasional amateur astronomer, and while I don’t get as much time to observe as I would like, the stars are often in my thoughts. Centering a femme fatale’s concept of self in a sinister portrait just occurred to me one day, while my mind wandered."

S.B. WATSON is a writer from Keizer, Oregon. When he’s not spending time with his family, practicing historic English quarterstaff, or playing Bluegrass guitar, he can be found in his library, constructing mystery novels and writing peculiar pieces of short fiction.

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