The Word Cloud

Hey guys, I am currently writing a novella set in a fictional old west landscape, it's based on a poem that I wrote last night so I will post the poem here and the opening of my novella. I would love to see what you guys think and if it has any potential. Thanks.

THE POEM:

My emotions have been swathed

the pencil lead has been engaged,

it's appealing to the spirit mind of several levels

I've looked for that matchstick once maybe several.

To be found under a curtain swaying softly silent in time with a beat

and discover a disabled mentality is our only feat.

A song plays heavily like a thunder cloud breaking west on the horizon

can you smell the salt drifting easterly for the monochrome mountains,

travelling on dust on particles that breach a certain rule a certain test for a fallen mule.

Being here amongst cacti I burn and swim in a melodic almost fashionable heat,

Mincing through rock and minuscule insects trying not to sting to step to destroy.

The sun is beating now I can hear its dull drum tap tap tap ever producing more bass

less snare more crash less ride with the occasional clang of a bell my head it aches,

Body wet dripping oh so wet and sticky from the salty sweat I can taste on my lips

with cracked skin they bleed I need rest I need feed I need water forever I need transport home.

With the endless mile and endless walking one feels like ones trapped under a dome of

impenetrable transparent steel,

metallic after taste breeds only like a virus if one lets ones mind become vulnerable in these harsh climates.

Where down the line did my life come to this?

Did it boil down to the factual events of my complacent habitual style of living?

Or did it just happen to let fate seep it's tendrils softly spasmodically under my crotch?

Either way I'm here, no escape just keep trodding to take the bate.

Same old strip same old road different boxes and sexual modes of desire,

must be delirious how long have I been without water?

Keep track keep time...

how can one keep track of time in a space so destitute so devoid of procreation?

I know not the answer, I don't even wear a watch

just a compass, on my wrist and with the right kind of vision this maybe could be a time keeper,

but alas that stage has not set in the part where your brain has thirst for moisture

and shrivels like an elderly penis, lost of hallucinogen, unkempt of secrets.

The stars are out tonight...sheep bray in the distance,

I lie in a ditch with dust for a blanket and in my mind a guitar licks a solo, cold and hollow,

sleep is not an issue here, for the question of whether my eyes will close is still at a crossroads,

I saw a landscape that could cook the very fabric of Satan's hoof prints,

this dark settles and now it could freeze the world into the oncoming ice age.

The body shivers the mind rots in a sense of self deliverance and one by one my digits fall apart,

it starts with the toes big first getting smaller, there is no pain in this unforgiving act

just robotic emotion to toy with and piece a solemn jigsaw of random thought,

why is this happening? I whispered although there was no need to this habit turns on automatic

in these late hours.

There was something almost epically apocalyptic in watching my vessel decompose

in the cold dry evening under Orion's belt,

The strangest sensation that one has not ever felt...

To be left alone in this strange dimension, questioning the hows and whys,

To experience such obscurity without the essence of being high,

To watch ones slow and gradual death

underneath a draconian sky.

THE STORY:

1.

I knew he was a marked man that heavy night I clapped eyes on him, looked a pale fellah sitting at the bar drinking copious amounts of whisky softly mumbling under his breath, a strange look of confusion smeared across that haunting face of his. He was a young lookin' man, now me being in ma early 70's young to me is about early 40's but I'd say this man was looking to be reaching his 30^th sometime over the next month and at that very moment he was the youngest man in the town of Dracul, he wore the typical attire of a cowboy I'd say one of them gunslinger types, even had the spurs on his boots. Underneath his hat you could see that he had blond hair, long almost past his shoulders, his eyes were a piercing blue, now with these traits you'd think this guy would be a handsome one but he ain't, his face was as rough as sandpaper, dark stubble with the occasional scar, the most noticeable being on his top lip on the left side, the whores wouldn't turn him down but I think a simple decent country girl wouldn't flutter her eyes at the site of him.

The one thing I'll never forget till the day death takes me (which shouldn't be too long now) were his guns, those magnificent six shooters strapped across his leather belt, and they were old six shooters not like the revolvers you get now, these were from my old days when gunslingers were real shootists, sandalwood grips and very heavy and this is where the confusion settled over me like some dark storm passing over the Olympus Mountains, how can this young fellah have such weaponry that don't exist any more? Such questions and thoughts led my eyes away from him thinking that if I stare too long he'll turn on me and put a hole in my head but he never turned, he never looked away from the round oak bar still mumbling ever so slightly, to the untrained eye it would look as if his lips never moved at all but being an veteran gunslinger meself I notice these things.

I may not be the oldest man in Dracul but I'm certainly the most frail, don't be fooled by the grey hair and prune textured skin, things can turn ugly in this late hour especially if some fool is caught cheating at the poker table, then it's every man for his self and then I pray that this young pard can use them weapons.

2.

The Mexicans had a name for him: El Vagabundo Misterioso, it meant The Mysterious Wanderer, no one knows where he come from and neither did he the poor guy, he woke up at the foot of the Olympus Mountains, a huge mountain range stretching across the eastern borders of the Drejyl Desert, delirious and greying vision he stumbled as he got up, figuring that he couldn't stand just yet he succumbed to sitting on a jagged rock and gathered his head.

He was wearing faded indigo jeans which were torn at the bottom, he had on a very sleek pair of black lizard skin cowboy boots with white scales stitched into the sides and of course there were spurs attached to the heels, there was a black range coat by his side which he put on to stave off the cold, underneath he had on a white coulter shirt that was dirty with dust.

There was a dark brown leather knapsack on the floor where he was lying

I must have been lying on it, was I asleep? There's no campfire...

he picked it up and opened it rummaging around its contents, inside there was a smaller leather pouch that contained tobacco and small brown papers, he decided that it would be a good idea to roll a cigarette, lighting it with a match he inhaled deep and exhaled in satisfaction and continued to unearth the contents of his knapsack, he found strips of beef jerky and a hunting knife with a belt, he strapped this around his leg and ate some of the jerky and found a notebook and pencil, the notebook contained poems all in his handwriting, the last item in his sack was another small leather pouch containing money, there were 30 silver dollar coins and 10 gold dollar coins, he smiled to himself and filled his knapsack with the items.

I don't even know who I am, I know where I am and I know that I must get through the Drejyl Desert quickly to the nearest town, for a quick moment my whole memory had been erased now it's pretty much come back except for who I am and what I'm doing here and something is telling me to make sure I remember the guns.

He turned around and found his gun belt and strapped it on, checked the weight of each gun and the tightness of the belt, he didn't feel dizzy anymore so he decided to walk and find the nearest town, the Drejyl Desert wasn't the best of places to be hanging around which is why he didn't understand why he would be sleeping out here on his own with no horse and no campfire, the sky darkened above him and it began to rain, the Olympus Mountains looked down on his sorry sight and took no pity, from this moment he was on his own a man with no memory of his previous life, a man who didn't know who he was or where he was going, a man who didn't know what he was capable of...

The good news is: I felt the story's atmosphere. For me, that's key. There were some good hooks that made me want to continue...

However the narrative is a heck of a long speil with different thoughts being integrated into one huge sentence. And watch the tenses, too many -ings - and switching between present and past.
Try breaking it down into manageable bites, using full stops. Then you could find some words superfluous and it will become sharper.
For example:

I knew he was a marked man that night. A pale fellah who sat at the bar drinking copious amounts of whisky. I heard him softly mumbling under his breath, a strange look of confusion smeared across his haunted face. I was in ma early 70's, and young to me was about early 40's, but I'd say this man was looking to be reaching his 30^th sometime soon. Right then he was the youngest man in the town of Dracul.

He wore the typical attire of a cowboy for one of them gunslinger types; even had the spurs on his boots. Underneath his hat he had blond hair, long almost past his shoulders, and his eyes were a piercing blue. With those traits you'd think this guy would be a handsome one, but he wasn't. His face was as rough as sandpaper, dark stubble with a long, wide and deep scar over his top lip. The whores wouldn't turn him down, but I think a simple decent country girl wouldn't flutter her eyes at the sight of him.