Our Man in Europe/now Belize: Dave Delacroix: "Sweet Raglan."

 

Our Man in Europe, now in Belize, Dave Delacroix: "Sweet Raglan."

...I know where I'm going and I know my own Tomorrow. I know where I'm going & no one's gonna stop me.... Keep your HEAD a-low, U foolish British Gentry, schoolboys are taught, a reptile-rigamortiz, an Arithmetic-propriety. The old school tie. But God forbid not ME or YOU:

...I know where I'm going. And I know just who loves me! I know where I'm going. No one can ever stop me. His she blonde or his she black, a Tartan of the Campbell? Does she blow the pipes, or strike the drum, my heart, my drear, my sweet, my Raglan. (Gal who kicks Ass!)

I know where I'm going. And I know just whom to go to. I know where I'm going, my sorrow & my lonely destiny. My maiden in the Scottish heather. An arrow struck her on the parapets, defending my castle as I, away at the Crusades. A-lack-a-day a Scottish Play!!! And now I sit in sorrow.

ALAS, God damned BLUES!!! But I know where I'm going. And I know my own Tomorrow. I know where I'm going. I know just where I'm going. Do YOU know where you are going, perhaps to meet sweet Raglan. I string my Bow, my arrow true: As for ME, my armor-ruptured, no-ne can stop me! I THINK I still know where I'm going!

Sweet Raglan. Where are you now?

(Dementia entrails & words tend to fail, a mind un-wind chisels at this grind.)

I know where I'm going.

c.2026. dave delacroix.

Our Man in Europe/now Belize/Dave Delacroix: "BRIGADOON!"

Our Man in Europe/now Belize/Dave Delacroix: "Brigadoon."

(dedicato:  Craig Jobe. R.I.P. Soldier-HERO in Vietnam, Inventor-Unique & Carol Aniello's/Dave Delacroix's best friend.)

(Brigadoon!" Once every year, the SCOTTISH LEGAND has it's been told, the FOG lies over the LOCH & all your Ghosts/Legends/Heroes descend from Valhalla to sing, dance in a festival of yesteryear & make "WHOOPIE!!!"

"Brigadoon!"...

 In remembrance, in Emporium: THE GHOSTS of our lives... ever be kind? Laments, regrets? Will they never CEASE that persecution in our SLEEP or let us recline? Alas. "Le plate de Jour"! We REAP what we SOW not caring the Morrows, debut an Oboe, a solo, a meteor in the night, 

...that singular WULPH!... an aghast "Honey," A nature's flatulence-UN-bodily. UN-controlled, a cerebral SMEAR, the artwork on your wall? "Honey, did U get that painting at the Flea Market? Did U paint it?" Some mirror. Some soul? "I could-a POSED!?" Leastways: "A.I." (Craig Jobe, laughing upstairs!) ...as we imagine all our DEPARTED, keeping the upstairs the beer on ice, smiling?

Who WAILS, the UN-foreseen, the ghosts, the HAUNTING, some ZIG-ZAG, a T.V. remote; just WHO - in the nights sky - moved OUR Elon Musk Satellite Moon? -David Bowie's movie: "The Man who fell to Earth?" -whose kiss did U last tasted? Did U write a Poem. Did U give a darned, Like a Man! Like a Girl? Legs a-akimbo: Come and get me-World? SURELY I WILL Frick U!

The Man U first loved in the lowlands, in the highlands, Loch Lomond. It was "a bonnie Wee Lass", a HIGHLAND- Scottish -regalia, fife & drum to herald a Maid, married at a Celliedh/Scottish Rave to sing of her virginity's loss, pipes & drums. Haggis munches & the Pipes!

 A fool in a Zoom. A fool in a Zoom, Lanvin No 6 lipstick at your last encounter? (Don't feel guilty/face-cosmetics, Monte Carlo, Cannes, boulevard des Anglais) ...when LOVE takes its token? Girl or Boy> U lie on the beach. What is your Want? What is your need? Spandex? A skeletal clothed in muscle, nerves & vivacity.

"OUT DAMNED SPOT!" (Scottish Play/Lady Macbeth) Ghosties in the night, that inner resurrection, what TITS or DICKS that writhe like serpents, let our secret nightmares dance, let those damned ghosts in our mind, twisting & turning, an inner burning, rogue, ever thriving, yet do leave us behind: 

AS ALWAYS, Hollywood SUITS, poking in their Gucci clothes noses. (Hanging on by their fingernail/expenses-jobs) ...

For WE!!! A "BRIGADOON" A mystery. A thought in the fog. Our love, regrets, the horrors we take to our grave. A Scottish Highland song, pipes & all to Brigadoon! The BAGPIPES RAVE! As we lament what pieces of our heart we can STILL SAVE! "OCH AYE!!!" To that fog of Brigadoon.

c.dave delacroix.2026

Our Man in Europe, Dave Delacroix: "Bloodshot MOON!"

TERED Our Man in Europe, Dave Delacroix/LORD BORGO: Bloodshot Moon!"

MY Moon, YOUR Moon, OUR Moon, that bloodshot sucker in the nights sky, circling our insanity, probably gonna need a millennium of psychotherapy?... That night lantern shadowing our diversity. A symbol of WHA!? Some night, our Moon may not shine.

 Some ROCK in outta Space. INSENSITIVE/couldn't care less, but maybe UNIVERSALITY pleads or SUGGESTS an innocence-indifference, but not a be-wigged Court to deport U to Australia or send U to the Gallows? Some night, our Moon may not shine.

SLAVE SHIPS to the Colonies for over a hundred years! Slaves in ancient times "de regeure"...!!! Who sings of Galley-slaves or Christian martyrs thrown to the lions? (Good eating?) Or battles! Sword on sword. Murder on murder to save the Purse of a King? Some night, our Moon may not shine.

Caesar, Timberlane, Genghis Khan, all Pharaohs have eyed, eye witnessed, been witness to our bloodshot Moon. Its visible craters, perhaps its CRATERS, the wounds we have sown? Tyranny. Injustice. We spew like a phlegm of lice as latter day, NOW in a city of dreams, HOLLYWOOD we ferment our device/VICE portraying all our yesterdays & future divined? Some night, our Moon may not shine.

 A Hi-tech Drone overhead, injections in mice, COVID in a test tube, as madness prevails, who wants to be BOSS, like a ravaged Protest Song of all that we've lost. And as for the Moon? Who DEVIL'S the morrow that cannot find the light? Some night, our Moon may not shine.

And as for the Moon. MY Moon. YOUR Moon. OUR Moon. That Bloodshot Moon. A witness!  Which out there in Space, CRATERED, lonely, orbiting the sky. Some night, lack-a-day, your faithful Moon may not shine.

c.2026, Dave Delacroix.

Our Man in Europe/Dave Delacroix; "MAIGRET!" (Famous literary French Police Detective.)

 Our Man in Europe/Dave Delacroix: "Maigret!" (...a'pres George Simenon)

"MAIGRET!"

.... ON A PARIS "Maigret" wet night, MURDER in the air, no suspects, no alibies, an abundance of lies, little truth & all disguised? Eyewitnesses' Zodiac. Seen too many "Film Noir" Movies? " The killer looked like Bob Mitchum from "Out of the Past", Could-a been Humprey Bogart, the "Maltese Falcon": DEAD RINGER (in French)!

Maigret tells his boys, go to nearest Cafe. One Franc for the eyewitnesses in case they think of something new... Give Em a Gitaine, a Gauloise. (Cigarettes & a Cognac). Make Em feel blue?

On a Paris-"Maigret" wet night, smoke from Maigret's pipe scents the boulevard, a combat with escargot/snails against severe garlic from the Cafe de la Paix. The murder scene, a swarm of Gendarmes promenading/investigating, poking around with their batons less they soil their pristine uniforms.

Still. The Rue Madelaine never looked so innocent. The ghosts of Balzac, Zola, Apollinaire, Rimbaud, Baudelaire do indeed haunt these quarters. World War 2 gave Paris an Allied/Nazis "Blitz" bombing break. The French Resistance? Some serious HEROES. But the murder of a Girl in peace time? French blood boils!

On a Paris "Maigret" rainy-wet Parisian night, getting murdered, a "Lanny" in a red dress, a transgender, a "Grisson" or a maid just on her way home? "Croissants et Cafe au lait Monsieur?" Cafe des Amis Rendezvous. Her Cafe clientele knew this girl so well. 

Her NAME- "Michele", dress ripped & torn. The last lonely BELLS she would ever hear, St. Eustace church, that eternal DING-DONG! DING-DONG!  From the "BnB/long term albergo" of France's dead Kings; a Francois Villion sonnet for Michele, too late. As for whom the bells tolls: DING-DONG! DING-DONG! "Ou sans les Neige d'antan?"...

On a Maigret wet Parisian night evil sometimes pervades, no suspects, no alibies, little truth, a glass of Pastiche, a glass of beer at the Cafe Dolphin yet Maigret alert, puffing on his pipe...the Concierge, where she lived, did she turn on the light? And Louis, the bartender, jilted lover, at the Cafe des Amis Rendezvous; was he waiting with a jealous stiletto that night?

LUKA, Maigret's right hand man awaits his orders!

c.2026, Dave Delacroix.

Our Man in Europe/nowBelize, Dave Delacroix: "PALOOKAVILLE!"

 Our Man in Europe, now BELIZE, Dave Delacroix: "PALOOKAVILLE!"(after Raymond Chandler)

"Palookaville!"

...I was working, office sink mirror, on my Mullet (haircut), my neglected foot-dangling a tad askew. I needed to exercise. Hit the office bottle. I hadn't seen VELMA in a while. NOBODY-lately, no high-end corpse having got murdered for a discreet "P.I." (A Shamus). This is bad for business: 

A lady suspected with a diamond necklace/absent dude in a Tuxedo, the chauffer A.W.O.L. with the big shots Rolls-Royce? And lipstick on your collar? (Thank U VELMA!) Even unemployed I felt like I needed a Chinatown laundry; a Palookaville-one way ticket stub before I hit downtown?

Some say that a STIFF (Dead frick U murdered) his heavier than a broken heart. Throw him in a Packards trunk, off the pier, South L.A. Bay: Malibu canyons, Las Vegas surrounds make Arlington Cemetery small, sadly less renown.

The TORCHER (Razzy-Night Club singer with the everlasting nylons), another VELMA, ZELDA (whatever) sitting now in my humble outta office, sniffling, handing me an envelope stuffed with dead Presidents, should I take the Case?

'Did U kill him? Did U drive him off the cliff, Pacific Palisades? It's IN the NEWS, that Packard, driven off the pier, that lipstick smear upon his dead lips? Did U KILL HIM!?"

...THIS GIG (a SHAMUS)  ain't for just anyone, the crunch Fedora, Gabardine-belted, a resident leer, wise cracks on hand, a loser, a fool ...in someone else's "Film Noir"?...

"Did U kill him?"

"NO! My lover, the chauffer!"

"Is he dead too?"

"I can explain that!"

At which point, Sergeant Nalty/Uniforms (L.A.P.D.) burst through my office door!

c.2026. dave delacroix.

Our Man in Europe, now Belize, Dave Delacroix -a.k.a. David Michael Oxley on Facebook - "FAT MARGO."

 Our Man in Europe, now Belize, Dave Delacroix: "Fat Margo."

HER LAST GREAT AFFAIR, she could do no wrong, that menopause, that urgence, that throng. That LAMIA coil, one last time, writhing she had to BE strong. That Girl now a great Lady, a need to sing her song.

That Period Pimple once upon her face now vanquished as times, now erased. No Ovulating, no bleeding, no trace of who she was. Her last great affair...a lonely maiden's song; she sings of tomorrow but mostly of yesterday... whence minstrels would court her & gather round and life seemed so gay.

Come-come U Dances! Come play!

Her last great affair, a dagger to her heart!  AGE! An inner elopement confounded, a tribal/Clan surrounded, yet then, when the bounder-suitor's absconded, last heard: No fixed address, killed, cutlass/pistole with Kit Marlowe (playwright) in a London South River bar?

Close friends whisper: "I told u so?"

Her last great affair, a Nunnery bound. And ALL this took place before, a posey Romeo & Juliet, Paris & Helene, Abelard & Whoopsies, serious stuff/history, her last great affair REVERBS and leaves tears on the ground. Message in a bottle? Maybe a ghost-Email, Time-Travel; Loves wormhole?

"TO THE NUNNERY-WENCH!", Mediaeval songs sing. Fat Margo. Brothel Ma'am. Whose last great affair do U sing of now?  Leaving the rest of us - a kind of Loving - in this WORLD BORDELLO ...where we ply our trade.

c.2026. Jan. Dave Delacroix.

Our Man in Europe, Dave Delacroix: "GUITAR! GUITAR!"

 Our Man In Europe, Dave Delacroix/now Belize: "GUITAR! GUITAR!"

(For LOIC, Mon frere dans Montmartre-Paris)

I KNEW A GERMAN KID IN LUDWIGSHAFEN who used to SLEEP with his Gibson Les Paul guitar. A white one. His dream. I never did tell him most of my OWN guitars had been smashed on stage, fricked out, stolen, 1 or 2... I stole too or, ON THE ROAD used them as a pillow, guitar-case blanket on concrete, in times of frustration threw them/SMASHED-NECK on the ground in hot deserts, Montana cold or California dew.

Played them at Music Festivals, Culture Festivals, Bars, Clubs, Roadhouses, House Parties, played/sang my heart out I guess...but invariably ON THE STREET, Winter, Summer, cold & sleet, my "TELL-TALE- HEART: (Edgar Allen Poe): Guitar-Guitar! Sometimes, not musically deranged, GITANO-MAN looking strange, FRANCOIS VILLION minstrel cursed perhaps (BAH!), other times I'd worship the guitar, their nubile shape, change the worn-out strings, get to short-string round the tuning pegs, make playable so the dammed things RING, 20 minutes MORE busking for medicine, 2 pitches of Budweiser at the nearest bar?

And ON THE ROAD, Guitar-Guitar! Crashed out in some alley, Guitar-pillowcase, TWICE stolen & papers, song lyrics, a change of clothes, gone!!! I'm passed out of course, drunk with the ghosts of beyond? Guitar? It doesn't matter. LIFE's choices, Men & Boys. Another Guitar? U meet some cool Gal. Get a "windfall". Back a Pony Winner. Cameo on a L.A."GONG SHOW!" Or HOOK A TUNE. Hollywood loves an un-invited talent adrift; but it's the MUSIC U share that stirs life's fresh brew... for the World?... Guitar-Guitar. Guitar-guitar. A Song. The Unique. And who U are.

Long time ago I met a kid in Ludwigshafen who used to sleep with his Guitar....

c.2026. Dave Delacroix.