Monthly Archives: April 2014

rough approximation


and if we sleep this night
will the tomorrow we awake to
be different from what dream

can we know either of us
we are the same
can we know either of us
again

what is ever changing
can it be ever known

what is never changing

can it ever be us

 

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Lessons On Foreign Languages In A Reeperbahn Café by Djanet Tozeur / Slipstream #14 sex food death issue version


Lessons On Foreign Languages In A Reeperbahn Café

for Cordula

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trees or torture…”

my breasts were made for children and your fingers…”

choices are limited by the boundaries of the playing surface…”

how do you know that’s not a table?”

if we could meet in Ireland by the palm trees…

everyone drinks Guinness and whiskey, every one drinks Paddy”

“even in the ancient holes of Greece, the big dig and who

wouldn’t give up school for the bones of Archimedes ?”

to find the way past childhood, finding the past of childhood,

the paths of childhood past the personal to the collective…”

who wouldn’t give up tomorrow for a chance to come into Pandora’s Box ?”

well when I am god I shall bless Pandora, bless Eve, bless all those who

turned away from paradise and instead followed the stars

to follow the question – Why? Why everything? Why not something else ?”

ignorance may be bliss but consciousness divine…”

 

 

…but if I could meet you in Ireland by the palm trees

yes, even I would drink Paddy whiskey with you from the bones

of Pandora’s ass; and we could trace the historic exile of

our childhood to the music of Bruce Springsteen’s : Point

Blank, The Price You Pay, Ties that Bind, as it tins through

some battery cassette. So roll up another cigarette and pass

the Pandora but first let me see your eyes, and kiss me. Let

me lay my tongue on yours. Let us swallow some of each

others spit, like a Red Indian blood-brother ceremony and

yes you can be Winnetou if you want to…

 

When I was in Greece I lived on dirt. No not even dirt but

sand – dust. The dust of hot sun and cruel fate, the dust of

ancient tombs split open like over-ripe fruit and covering

everything with a dry syrup crust. We were fond of bones and

murders, of sacrifices and lesbians and of our Spartan

swords and sleeping children. We hated columns and

Parthenons. We sweated ouzo and goat fat and when we farted

little black olives rolled down and out of our pant legs.

 

When I was in Europe I lived on sleep. I slept for days in

Wien, Vienna, Vienne, Vienna … Slept for Beethoven at his

tomb and at his little platz by the statue near the

Shubertring. I was frozen in the Maria Theresian Natural

History Museum – lost among the stuffed corpses of every

living creature known to man.

In Hamburg, the whole city is made of sleep. Sleep like a

giant smog impregnated every thing and every moment. Its

embryonic motion grows heavy in a damp heat, like breath on

a still winter night of north sea drifting downward with

hunger, for those German girls ,who like the little boys of

a homosexual fantasy cover me with the slick semen of their

love. Their mouths moaning with love, their cunts hungry

with love, their ass-holes a dream of love…

 

In the states I lived on flesh. The flesh of pigs,

the flesh of Ronald McDonald, the catholic flesh of Christ bloodless

white and sour… I lived with the flesh of dead dogs and

aborted infants; sucked the juices from the fresh wounds of

teenage girls down in the darkness of their daddy’s garages.

(Dracula had nothing on me man). I walked the ninety degree

heat s of New York City streets. Streets made of skin and

muscle like some giant souvenir of Auschwitz. The tattoos

sweating black ink and muggers. Whenever I couldn’t buy

anything to eat all I had to do was lick the street – Meat

Street USA. And when I could afford to bribe my way out to

the country side? It was for a breath of fresh blood and a

little something still warm from its body heat to chew

on.

 

… but now we sit by the palm trees of Ireland and we

have hung up our harps to dry. Pandora’s ass is so dry, is

like a sponge sucking up Irish whiskey the way a drowning

man sucks sea. We don’t sleep anymore and the only flesh we

eat is our own. You have met me here and like Winnetou have

taken the blood of my wound into your own. So my dearest

look at me; you have the saddest eyes I have ever known. Do

you remember the peace I stole from you in Hamburg years

ago? Now there is nothing to heal, nothing, no reason to

steal… So roll up another cigarette; the sun is really out

doing itself today, a splendid display of muscle and our

harps soon will dry… But first let me lay my tongue upon

yours, let my tongue sleep awhile in that sweet hole. Let

us see how long we can stay still like that

 

and yes you can be Winnetou if you want to.

 

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on the occasion of my first trip abroad in 1983 I started this piece. this version was published by Slipstream a print magazine out of Niagara Falls New York (the town not the water) in their #14 sex food death issue. As you can see this one ticked all the boxes. It was published under the pen name Djanet Tozeur in 1994. At the time I didn’t realize it but my work was published alongside (more or less) material by Charles Bukowski. It wasn’t until I was 52 years old that I discovered Bukowski otherwise I would have enjoyed the publication even more. I was 39 years old in 1994. Unfortunately the issue is sold out and out of print otherwise you could get to read his really cool poem about his death. Anyway Slipstream is still publishing and doing the good work of keeping poetry alive in the USA and the rest of the world.  The last line with the  reference to Winnetou was not published by the magazine. Who knows why.  But I liked it too much to not add it on here. Otherwise it is exactly as they published it. You should look up Winnetou, if you want to – Google is the way to go.

 http://www.slipstreampress.org/

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salamander yellow


Pdlyons's Explorations

He saw a picture of you

He saw a picture of you today. Still there on Abbey St. Blonde hair like straw thatched out from under the rain soaked brim of that old black hat. There was mud on your wellies, there was a crooked smile on your face as if some wonderful power of secrets about to be told… and left to silence. How many years, how many miles, how many faces, strangers and places so called home? In a punch full of tears all at once he knew it wasn’t himself or them or even you but Dublin broke his heart.

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Where does it all come from?


Pdlyons's Explorations

Where does it all come from? walk through the grocery store look at all the stuff. Where does it all come from? How can there be so much? Coffee; there’s’ about thirty brands on the shelf, instant, ground, whole bean, decaf, French roast and etc. roasts. Then figure at least a half dozen grocery stores in town all with similar shelving plus IGA’s, convenience, starchuck’s, mcburger’s, duncandodo’s, diners and various etceteras all selling coffee and coffee product. Multiple by number of stores doing this in Connecticut, then multiply by number of stores in USA, Europe, China, Australia, world. Figure all their stock plus wholesalers warehouses and how do they do it? How can there be that much coffee in the world? How is that much of a product that is so labour intensive to produce, and in limited geographical and environmental areas, exist in such massive amount as and for…

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Trust by pd lyons


 

 

Trust

I walk out
The horse does not resist.
Leads as if there’s not a diseased bone in her body.
Does not notice children crying,
Rain stopping sun brightening
But rather a yellow butterfly –
Moves her head to keep it in sight
Until for some reason she will never know,
Can no longer do so.

 

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this was published by the now, non existent, no archive – The Calamity Jane on line. It was a side project of Caper Journal, Patasola Press which does have some archives while not active at this point. i would have written this in 1993 when i was working at a horse rescue rehab in Connecticut. They are still in existence and continue to do phenomenal work  – H.O.R.S.E. of Connecticut http://www.horseofct.org/

 

 

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Little Russia by PD Lyons, Calliope Nerve Version


 

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Little Russia

No one knows for sure how

Maybe some ice age fluke

Some shamanistic trance gone awry

But some how it is there

Just a few acres wild weeds witnessed by an empty house an

Abandoned sheet metal shop standing where once the white wood slaughter-house once stood where layer after layer of thick lead paint could not keep old blood from seeping through

Beside those trees where the road parallels those tracks over that stone grey arch bridging this river tainted now as then by run off from the tannery

just a few acres wedged in by a half circle ridge of glacier rock and sapling hardwoods where wolves though heard are never seen and leave no trace not even in the snow where only smooth soled sets of footprints going in disappear mid field and like wise sometimes appear mid field heading out and all through the month of November any remnant of growing thing be it stem or stalk or stick, each night is tipped with a single never freezing liquid drop such are the tears from all those who pass in one direction or the other through what we called Little Russia.

2. When I was a kid at school we had the books

They had all the symbols in them even satanic ones

All the symbols of the world

Old and new.

But one day this man came, he went around to all the class rooms.

He took away all our books.

Even the teachers were mad at this

But they had to give us other books.

New books without all the symbols.

Now they don’t teach you anything,

Just reading comprehension – you read something they give you,

Then you answer a question about what you read

Then you get a degree

Then you forget it.

But I remember we had the books

They had every symbol in the world even the satanic ones

All the symbols old and new –

Now people don’t know anything.

They don’t know this is an ancient world,

They think it’s only six thousand years but it’s not.

Its millions and millions.

We had the symbols once but they were taken away.

And I know this, even though people don’t know them anymore,

There would be no world without the symbols.

And I know this, there’s still a place where you can find them,

Beside those trees where the road parallels those tracks over that stone grey arch bridging this river tainted now as then by run off from the tannery

Under the bark of old wood, drifting under pieces of bark and branches

All what people say are just worm marks the symbols of the world, old and new, made by such worms as those there are in Little Russia.

3. What they don’t teach anymore about photosynthesis in schools?

That each leaf of each tree makes a photograph, an image of what’s around it. This is how there are many worlds at once.

each year when the leaves fall the images are stored inside the tree and when the new leaves appear they do so with all the images taken by all those leaves that came before and then through out the growing season these fresh leaves take additional photographs. The images get stronger and stronger depending on how many photographs of them have been stored. The longer something is there the stronger it becomes – building up substance over the years.

that’s why if you parked a model A here beside this tree and left it there eventually the real car would disintegrate but then be replaced by an image of the car an image created by thirty years of constant photographing by multitudes of leaves. Thus these photos are synthesized into an image so

That long after the original had rotted away

That model A

No mechanic can make run

No grease fills its crank case

No gasoline fills its gas tank

You sat in it made it go up and down up and down

Then ran home shouting

Grandpa! Grandpa! I flew the car! I flew the car!

Beside those trees where the road parallels those tracks over that stone grey arch bridging this river tainted now as then by run off from the tannery.

Didn’t we meet there once?

Weren’t you the one draped in skins?

Smile polished sepia

Black eyes stranded behind silver languages

Mindful of Ukraine choirs before the war

Dear one, dear one, my dear dear dear one

Starlings of tears each familiar voice polished crystal snow

Beside those trees where the road parallels those tracks over that stone grey arch bridging this river tainted now as then by run off from the tannery

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(for Jim when he lived in a tent by a river in New Milford ct. – we met while I stopped for a smoke, we shared a few and had a conversation. it was winter and I only had a fiver to give him and a half a pack of Marlboro – he gave me this poem. I tried for years to do it justice. He’d a done it better himself. Anyway the important thing is Jim, not the poem – so here you go Jim – this ones for you, and maybe all those who unlike yourself never had a chance with all the symbols of the world.)

As published by Muse Thing: The Calliope Nerve October 2009 http://calliopenerve.blogspot.ie/search/label/PD%20Lyons  
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This was probably first written in 1995 – 6. Pretty much as it says. I met Jim while i was parked for a smoke break along the Housatonic river in New Milford ct. we stood under the tree at the pull off. the landscape was opposite us and he told me what he told me

Your Eyes, by pd lyons from A Letter Among Friends Vol.3 No.1


Your

      Eyes

                wet stars

    torn from the sky of flesh

              sharp the laceration

              cool the winding breath of smokey sadness

     I mourn for you

        like a mother

    mourns the child finally born

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this was published in 1979-80 by a little print mag out of Groton, Connecticut called A Letter Among Friends.   Must have wrote it in the early 70’s. I remember the editors criticized  the other poems i ‘d also sent as being “…too song like.” Funny what one remembers.

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Fore Abbey by pd lyons; Irish American Post version


lilly

 

 

Fore Abbey

whiskered wooden posts
some still decorated by bits of rusted star-crossed metal
silhouetted on the hillsides
random marks above the weeds
as if the graves of unknown beings
silence but for crows
tied like rags upon a single thread
suspended ever changing from an ever changing sky
more shades of grey than words I know
and when the sun 
ignites as far away as I can see the rolling valley edges
in brief and brilliant flames of green such as
emeralds could only dream
as sure as this November morning
makes each breath I take a smoky prayer
this is the wherever I should exactly be 
stone once shifted by anonymous hands
now held by my own
a nameless legacy bequeathed from each to each
a richer draught than any fame
what lingers here for however long
black mud by gravel beds
fed by springs that have no end
where someday I along with all the rest
remembered by some other unknown soul
perhaps while sitting on this very ledge to ponder
fates befell all those who left their mark upon this land.

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For years now i have been fortunate enough to know of and be able to walk the landscape around the village of Fore Westmeath.  accompanied by my dear friend and on occasion my dear family. Lily was one of those all terrain jack Russell creatures who i have never seen tired although she would easily do at least five to every mile i’d walk. she was equal to all weather and was a fairly good rock climber when needs be. to day was the first time in i cant remember how long i walked her walk with out her.

this poem was published, along with three others,  by the Irish |American Post http://www.gaelicweb.com/irishampost/year2006/12fall-winter/featured/featured12.html FALL-WINTER 06 / VOL. 7 ISSUE 2. it is live archived. it is also still as of winter 2014 still publishing : http://www.gaelicweb.com/irishampost/

 

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and unlike some, she had a great capacity for retaining dignity

 

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