The writings of Hunter Coch

Posts tagged “Western


Way of the Drifter

He’s got pale blue eyes
And a sly crooked smile.
His heart burns with rage,
For the world has done him wrong.
He walks upon dunes,
Wind and sand,
      His face weathered.
Always on the hunt,
He seeks to reap his vengeance.
None are left but ghosts
In a sea of empty death.
Few dare cross his path.
He is destroyer of men,
Lone Saint of killers.
Judicator of the lost
Walking the dark road of dusk.


Part of the Drifter series


Golden Steppes

Wandering lost on

Vast steppes of long golden grains.

He walks with the heat

Heading towards the western shores

With memories left behind.

Visual Poetry: West

Part of the visual poetry and the Drifter series

Part of visual poetry and the Drifter series


Visual Poetry: Desert Drifter

Part of the visual poetry series

Part of visual poetry and the Drifter series

Story: The Song of Ximena Aljibe Part #2 . . . #WesternWednesday

The Song of Ximena Aljibe Part #1 can be found here.

What does your soul sing when the sparrows fly west?
What hope does the desert eagle bring?
What sleeps in the nest?
What songs do the coyote sing?

A dread mist fills the streets and alleys. A fog of sloth brought by wrath; the dark man brings vengeance to the town that defiles a muse. And the rolling thunder would come again and again; Only Ximena new it was that dark man whom dwelt in the storm.

By the next performance the fog lingered; people are forgetful & apathetic . . . They will never forget again after this evening. A big night was planned. More than one performer and Ximena was to be the star, the one to close the night.

The dark man walks down allys unseen; hat hung low, collar turned high. One in each hand hangs the steaming colts. Though many saw him, none would remember the man who walks in the fog. The only remembrance comes in the form of dark terror and rolling thunder.

Crime of lust in the storage rooms, seeds spilled under the cellar door. Dark deeds in the minds of patrons filled with golden spirits. Music plays gently in the night air. Moisture stifles the sounds in the distance, but are still herd in the east by the riders who approached; comancheros on painted steeds.

Bandits of the waists, and the people of the desert town welcomed them (or rather welcomed the stolen wealth). Apathetic malice rode in the five hearts, whores and rape, opium and booze, the core of desire; and the big show.

Three notes began the show, two hard, one soft.

Nona Magaera began with a stomp on the bar she stood upon, then walked extending the legs gracefully but with great exaggeration with a wide swing of her hips. A sinful smile perked the corner of her lips as she sang a song of innocence defiled and virginity ruined. One could almost tell she was pregnant.

Then they walked in, the five bandits of the waists. Room was made for them. Seats were given to them. Whiskey was served. And as Nona danced and sang, a tear fell as she looked at the youngest of the comancheros but she covered it with a skillful swipe of her hand against her cheek but as the hand fell it caressed the very slightly protruding belly. The young bandit looked up in recognition, smacked his companion then pointed at the poor Nona, laughing with villainous pride.

The performance ended with the second woman leading in as None ran back to her room.

Decima Tisiphone came out with a rage in her eyes, even though she had a matronly look. Beginning her number with a scream that was either the sound of vengeance satisfied or sexual climax. Her song was not slow, her song was not sultry, but was more like a hard but satisfying fuck. It brought a new level of drunkenness to the crowd. A Dionysian dream was taking hold; which lead to next act as Dicima, instead of returning to her room, stepped down into the crowd and accepted the drinks offered.

Morta Alecto was a woman of dark attire, silk and lace in shades of black, magenta, and violet. She wore crimson on her lips, the color of blood. Skin pale like the high desert snow.

Her song and dance was slow, but her skill seemed off as if she waited for one set of eyes in particular. The performance was unlike any sung that night, more of a summoning than a song; but that would be correct. The object of her calling now stood in the large door. Then her song really began, as the dark man seemed to nod in response to the calling.

Fire was in the voice of Morta Alecto, and the Dionysian fever gained in heat.

One of the eastern bandits beat on Nona’s door, not the youngest who was now perusing matronly Decima, but no man longed for Morta though she shined with more beauty than all but one who now took her steps down the long staircase into the cravinous crowd.

She did not see him at first, but on the third step his pale grey eyes fond her hazel. He smiled pure wrath; pulled his pistols and let loose the rage . . .

Tanka: Three Tanka of a Deserts Rage . . . #WesternWednesday

Rage filled pale gray eyes
and his hate brought destruction,
To the desert towns,
Each step on the trail grows sage,
’till the sun sets and life starts.

But in the empty
waists and nightmare visages
of the deep visions
lost in the stars of heaven,
falling into reborn souls . . .

The lost are now found;
belonging to forgotten
badlands of lost youth,
You are all remembered beings,
Joined by violence of the minds.

Story: The Song of Ximena Aljibe Part #1 . . . #WesternWednesday

“Good evening fine folk of the south desert, and honest men of the tilled earth. As you know, one night a week we have our very special performer. You all know her. You all lust for her, in your secret dreams. To all our delights . . . welcome our desert queen . . . Ximena Aljibe.”

The screams and yells of welcome from the citizens of the Red Saloon was heard throughout the town, but when she entered the balcony, the people quieted. With her first step the piano began and in her third step down the tall stares she began the song. She sang and she weaved her way down the wooden steps. Each step was three beats of a heart, but to the eager audience, it seemed like ten-thousand.

She walked with confidence, but in her heart sat a stone. From her voice came her passions and songs of lust that burned in the obsessed; the crowded joint responded. In her dance was the dance of the succubus, movements brought radiance, but from around came dark desires seething with lust; one will pay later . . . so will she.

She jumped and sat on the edge of the fine oak bar, the crowds gathered around, lust filled their loins, desire in minds, and she sang to the power of melancholy delight, salacious sin, and delightful devilry. She knew the highest bidder wold take her. After the show gold would be her only delight, and she would swim in a yellow lake.

On the other side, leaning in a corner, only a reflection in the mirror from behind the bar, stood a man who did not lust. A dark man whose soul reflected pain like Ximena’s brought desire. He stared with eyes of grey steel, and for a moment, his stare made the angel voice quiver; but only the ears of the dark man heard; it made him smirk.

The song she sang continued and slowly the melody focused only on the dark stranger and he felt the sting of green eyes in the hearts of the mob. His face was stone and that stung her. In her inner most thoughts she was already in love, her conscious mind hoped he would pay this evening. Her eyes to his, and when love gets brought in, the walls will invariably fall. So dark man of the dusty planes stood like a pillar of salt, watching Ximena bring the audience to near climax . . .

Then stop.

The song of Ximena Aljibe had finished. She vanished to her room in the tobacco filled air, reading herself for the high bidder, desire against hope, for her dark man.

But them old devils are at it again; the dark man did not come, but the rancher Stevens stood at the door, his toothy and droopy smile and drool at his lips corner and glazed eyes leered.

Stevens tossed the gold too her feet.

For the first time, since her innocence was sold for the yellow metal, she cried. This angered the rancher. He fucked harder, but Ximena learned, long time past, to embrace the pain and let it fill her, listen to the hurting to drown out the cause.

The first thing she remembered, since going away, was the quiet night. Stevens was gone; left sometime in her delirium. She fixed her-self, scrubbing the filth away, removing the sickness outside. But the inner sickness was rising, and refusing to be submerged again. What had the dark man done to her. His steel eyes tore through her like hot lead through flesh.

And that’s when the shots came. From the street below her window they rang; uncountable blasts, with a scream of rage, sounding like the cumming of Stevens. She ran to the window and in her sight was the rancher, sprawled on the dusty street, above him was the dark man, his double colts smoking but still aimed at the fallen face.

And the dark man looked to Ximena Aljibe’s window, steel eyes a weapon. He looked down to dieing man, and fired the double rounds. From Stevens face rose crimson mist mixing with grey smoke.

Without looking, the one in the dark duster walk off, not a care for those that stood around. Not heeding the woman in the window.

#Haiku: Drifting . . . #WesternWednesday

On this great western Wednesday we start with a haiku, yes a western Haiku, get over it . . .

Drifting in the Sun
On dry lakes in high deserts,
The dust devils spin.

Another post soon: The Song of Ximena Aljibe

Poem: This Devils Test (draft #1) . . . #WesternWednesday

This is a companion piece to the Poem, Six Bullets ’till Sundown.

I’m not 100% happy with the structer and flow of this one, but I’m tired and done for now. Enjoy

The dark man walked,
whistling melancholy tunes,
never talked,
looking for fortunes,
then in the wind cries, “Die!”

The desert was lonely with sage,
dust and windblown spires,
an improbable word of rage,
no ghost inspires,
sounded in the sky.

Colts set free,
pale eyes staring,
aching to spree,
and the heat blaring,
To the sight of emptiness.

He grinned,
and in the breeze,
on the lips of the hellish wind,
hands sought the ivory, itching to appease,
the lust in the lonesomeness.

The sky stretched blue,
with pillows of white,
and as the light grew,
so did the need to fight,
but the silence only stood on the sage spotted desert.

The dark man stands,
eyes in shadow,
hilts in hands,
feet in the meadow,
It came to hurt . . .

“Die! Son of a bitch!”
with silver knife,
and startled twitch,
and drops of red life,
fall slow.

Swinging with hungers rage,
his aged scalp gray,
dancing in the sage,
hunting to slay,
the dark man from below

Pale eyes held the motions,
skill sharpened his mind,
with calloused emotions,
waiting to repay in kind,
each slice of the knife.

Crimson splashed,
on the sagebrush,
the colors clashed
in his heated rush,
lusting for the dark mans life.

A moment came,
as he faced the west,
thunder without aim,
old man went to rest.

The dark man looked to the kill,
the kill with sights on the dealer,
“Son”, he said quiet and still,
“father”, spoke the dark revealer,
winning this devils test.

Away the dark man walked,
whistling melancholy tunes,
colts cocked,
heading to the deserts dunes,
Spirit of the desert sage.

Short Story: Pecos Bill: The Birth (Part #1) . . . #WesternWednesday

Pecos Bill: The Birth
Part #1

The story begins at his birth, the last of nineteen. The trail was hard and the desert wanted its toll. Mother screamed and cursed at the birthing pains, but  let out a smile as father came into the light. Father sat and mother leaned against him. She cried with resolution as father sent us away.

Father was a pillar of hope and strength, though the only help he could offer was support and compassion and a guiding hand bringing the tequila to her lips.

“I’m ready”‘ she said, tear falling.

The knife was pulled from his belt and placed mothers sweaty hand. Another drink to calm the pain and harden the spirit . . .

A deep slice from left to right, giving light to the unborn, and from the wound came Bill, on his own, just a smiling and laughing as the happiest child could possibly be.

Never was such a child seen.

“You are born to do great things Bill”, mother said while bleeding from the heroic wound. She held him and simply looked. Love and adoration filled her eyes. Mother then died.

Bill, sat in the comfort of the dead mothers arms, chewing fathers Bowie knife; and father sat with death and new life both looking for support. He weeped for joy and sorrow looking at the desert dawn.