The Desert Lake

The second book by Ragman Jones The Desert Lake. A few excerpts:



What a fucking waste!’

Were you thinking what I was thinking?’

Could it really be helped?

I’m not really sure.’ Keith replied with a look of distrust in his eyes.

It was about two years ago’, John said before lighting up.

A few years earlier the two shameless guys had been discussing the very same thing. No one on earth had the answers they sought. Who could have the answers? Politicians, healers, freaks, men of cloth, none of them. It was an impossible cause. No one would ever secrete the solution. Especially not two misfits like these.

Keith was now 38 years old and all of his life had been spent, so far, chasing impossible dreams. John, a more distinguished man, was older but always seemed to be the child of the two.




Charlie sat at his piano, thinking about notes, they took time from him, scale to scale and with delicate fingers he played them, to himself, but never the less he played them, over and over. They did not repeat in his mind, his mind was elsewhere. He lit a cigarette and smoked it, slowly. Still no morning, just darkness in the loft. Abrupt were the last flickers of starlight. Without question and without distinction. Time was moving, but not as time in the linear sense, it was moving as sound. The slight sustain of the evening still surrounding him as the melody interrupted any thoughts. Coffee waiting. A lonely bird calling the dawn. A sad little chirp, lonely, as were his eyes.


The Poet


There was a place I never called upon/ it was a place called distrust/ If it was, the place that I was thinking of/ I would have called it happiness/ do you recall my memory/ do you understand my feeling of regret/ Please me only for you are able/ please me because it enables you thought/

Alone they sat together/ alone they sat/ alone they would be/ the bells rang/ Christmas was close/ Christmas was joyful/ new years passed and drifted by/ The evermore seeming Mars of escape/ speed was not of this essence it just was/ something I remember as a boy was the brook that cooled my thoughts/ the thoughts of anger/ anger did not fight me I just became this way when it would be apparent/ what is the television for/ is it fighting/ is it dreaming/ who can say/ who can answer/ not I/ once it was said that the TV was not to be a Part of the revolution/ is it not its own revolt/ there will always be avocation/ there will always be discussion/ there will always be talk/ there will always be disagreement/ I cheated on my spelling tests in the face of our dear reverend servant of the lord/


The swell of the sea/ covered my song/ stole my melodies/ but fed my imagination/ sheltered me from insanity/ lucky I was that day before provocation/The bullets flew past the embers of the fire/ the light flickered/ not at all brightly/ just so/ just so it would entangle the corner of the eye/ sweet is the fruit rewarded from the tree of bitter disgust/ sweet is the bread that feeds those who are hungry/bitter is the taste left in the mouth of the fool who cannot see/ can see it all in front of his eyes/ but who cares not to/Not to look that is at the dream that awakes all who cannot sleep/ I am so very tired and so eluded by the fantasy of this dream/