H.L Dowless is a thirty-plus-year veteran writer, with hundreds of traditionally publishing successes underneath his belt. He presently lives a true literary lifestyle in the exotic land of Ecuador. One may find an account of his experiences, successes, and adventures on his blog page, Rowdy Living Press HERE



It’s four o’clock in the morning,
Everybody is at home,
And I’m staggering in for my showing,
But the night is now long gone.
I say to you,
My tale is still worth knowing.

My car broke down by the roadside.
The white-hot harlot I was with went crazy.
I didn’t know what I was doing because I was fried,
And my eyes were still mighty hazy.

She ripped the wires from underneath my steering wheel,
Screaming her Waccamaw yell,
I thought I was walking into a good thrill,
But I most certainly had stepped off into hell.

The warriors came from all around with shining spotlights,
Scanning about through the fields and woods.
My comrade and I feared for our lives.
All we ever wanted was to lay with the whores,
If such is to be understood.

They finally had us both surrounded,
Then in the melee we were both separated;
We stood against the whole hundred head
But floundered.
Their passion in chasing us made them elated.

I thought they had slain ole Elmer,
They beat him hard with a rifle butt;
But I escaped into Back Swamp
And followed the stars,
Walking forty miles out
Taking the backwoods ruts.

I discovered a gallon of shine underneath a dilapidated barn shelter,
As I slowly plodded my way back home.
I didn’t know what had happened to my dedicated helper,
Since we both trod our own way out alone.

Before I arrived back at the house
I paused to drink,
Now the moon appears so much brighter!
I became much more philosophical
I think,
And my wife’s raging face
So much lighter.


All alone,
talking to myself.
staring at the walls,
It’s only me and nobody else.

with my own mixed up thoughts.
with my haunting terror dreams;
hearing whispers all about,
I must be going mad so it seems.

Its only me,
seeing what I want to see,
reading what I want to read,
yet still not being where I want to be,
its all such a bedazzling mystery.

This ringing in my head is so loud,
the drip in the sink so intense,
an electric hum in the room is all around,
now this small space seems so immense.

Where has all my precious time flown?
Often I sleep in daytime hours,
yet an intrinsic yearning for new adventure has strangely grown;
I try to quash my inner illness by taking long showers.

with only me and my books.
with me writing these poems.
with the laughing spirits and the imaginary freaks,
all alone in the witching hour thunder storms.

When I lay down with my other in the bed,
yet still I wake up with myself.
In the end when all is finally said,
It’s only me and nobody else.

When the day arrives that they finally lay me down,
all alone in a box is where I’ll be.
Complete stillness shall then envelope
and no sound,
as I slumber in that void of eternal secrecy.


When the day arrives that they lay me down,
into a realm of eternal dreams I’ll go.
As I lay inside that space void of all light and sound,
Incessant peace shall be all I then know.

When that cathedral’s pipe organ plays,
those somber melodies shall be haunting and loud.
Images of woods,
and dreary grays,
shall vibrate inside every dark shroud.

When they place that veil over my pallid face,
the barrier before my eyes shall be sealed;
and all shall then move at a melancholy pace,
while I pass over fields of tulips and buttercups
locked away inside a box of cypress wood and steel.

When all those people gather round,
there no tears shall be shed for me;
for inside esoteric spaces I will be found,
as I roam through epochs of mankind’s history.

When they finally get me there,
my immaculate corpse they will at long last see;
as I slumber without any needs or cares,
yet silently weep at their mortal lives of misery.

When they toss that final shovel full on,
skies above shall darken and storm.
They shall declare as I lay there all alone,
something about this ceremony was not the norm.

When I have lain there ten thousand years,
my dried bones will yet remain in perfect place.
No pain,
no weeping,
no more grieving tears,
as I slumber in a dream-like occultist space.