Post Scripts (xxx ooo) by pd lyons as published by The Legendary


photographer unknown

photographer unknown

 

Post Scripts (xxx ooo)

After a year and a day of Pearl Harbour
Your eyes would be this blue….

~

Should I sit here on the street?
Haven’t I had enough of streets?
All my life, hasn’t that been enough?
Inside, the safety of the cafe is
Like a tomb, full of concrete and steel.
So I sit on the street side, eat from un- labelled tins,
Tired of everything.
What pearls?
Only swine.
What tombs?
Only wet cardboard bodies.
Sucked into the current.

~

Paradise is not so very far from this.

~

Remember, she sat on the White Stone Bridge
Talking about how she and another woman,
Both singing, both draped in doves, stood above Mount Fuji.
Appropriately deified
By waiting photographers,
Black and white
Smudged
Yet attempting to fly.

~

Remember, you losing your way
In Frisco over some slick little penis,
Piercing your armour with its determined
Burrowing motion only to slip out with a whimper,
Leaving you to know – you should have known better.
Later, out on the veranda, squatting over
An enamelled basin, your hands a smear full of pleasure
Needing nothing then from any man.

~

After a year and a day,
My thoughts snake until broken
Stream along that gentle surf
Deserted now except by occasional reptiles
Come to feed on whatever it is they find attractive
Here in the harbour of lost cities –
I walk alone accidentally remembering
What lovers?
What ambitions?
What crimes?
Against what humanity?
These haunt my waking hours
Run rampant through my sleep.
Although these days it’s difficult to tell the difference,
Like yesterday or what may have been a yesterday,
Was that really someone on the beach? Someone running?
My pursuit sucked away by sand until I’m spinning.

~

So what happens?
After a year and a day of pearl Harbour
How can I tell?
The days
The sleep
Waking
Walking
Standing
Talking
All
Dreaming.

~

Sometimes I make believe your pastel messages from Europe, still come.
I spend hours writing back
Drop you a line
Confetti
Over the Arizona.

~

Once I hid your letters all over the place
So after forgetting where they were I’d accidentally find them
Sometimes I still do – find them.
They are the real ghosts here.

~

Run rope against my skin. Stick myself with things.
Lay in the sun until reassured by burns.
It got that difficult to tell –
Alive or dead? Asleep, awake?
For a while these things mattered
But now, no longer into pain
I mostly keep to the shade.
So sometimes are those sails on the horizon?
Trails of smoke as if from ship?
I don’t know. Maybe I am just dreaming,
Just waiting for news from the mainland,
Just waiting for the phone to wake me up.
After a year and a day of Pearl Harbour,
You know, I really don’t give a fuck
Either way there’s 9,227 cigarettes to go.

                 z z z
                 e e e
                 r r r
PPS xxx- ooo

 

 

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

http://www.downdirtyword.com/authors/pdlyons.html#ps

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Published by The Legendary (May 20, 2010. Issue 17.)  This was written probably on the mid eighties during my New Haven days. They are still in existence and are open as of this writing for poetry and fiction submissions :

For general inquiries send email to katie@downdirtyword.com.

We publish established writers as well as the new and nervous. We would love to be your very first publication if you rock our socks off. *”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

PPPS : The little ~ ‘s have nothing to do with the original work, its just that sometimes word press chooses to disregard my spacing from draft to publication. so.

DSC_9146

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