Immortal Beloved, by pd lyons




Immortal Beloved

There is no such thing as Beethoven in Waterbury.
No one sees him buying race forms or cigarettes at Bauby’s corner.
He doesn’t play pin ball at Dazz’s,
chalk a cue at Gentlocks, pan handle a concert crowd at the Palace theatre,
order Blue Ribbon shorts at Backstreet’s or sit in Dresher’s after three sipping cool tall dark drafts.

He’s not protesting the war at Library Park,
selling acid from the Kingsbury hotel,
falling asleep on Christmas eve with a girl named Mary in the chapel of St. Johns church.
Strung out girls don’t get to build snowmen on the green with him
Mattatuck music can’t hire him to move their stock
and the old man at Palace Liquors can’t argue with him any-more.

Hare Krishna’s can’t get him to do their chanting.
Doorways where he stood out of the rain for hours are empty or are gone.
Strangers at the all night bus station, killers on their way to Canada…
women from Louisiana… never meet him any-more.

He doesn’t share a table with down-town Shirley and her father,
foretell the death of walking- stick Louie betrayed by Tiger Teddy,
sell more orange sunshine than Bobby Comfort,
blow a joint with the New Riders of the Purple Sage,
love a reincarnated baton twirling beauty queen from North Carolina,
let catholic school girls follow him home – cry when he had to let them go.
He doesn’t clamour along the roof tops with a friend named Bird, who never got to California, find free warmth in the library or in the stairwells of the Brown building or for a quarter a slice get to sit behind the pizza ovens at Dom’n Nicks.
And no one sees him sitting on the fire escape drinking Roma California Port with Whitey and Charlie Brown –
There’s no such thing as Beethoven in Waterbury any-more.

On the corner of Lewis and West Main Beethoven’s lover stands
Eyeing several school girls waiting for their bus across the street.
She watches and waits – nothing happens for her in this town any-more.
Yet she dyes her hair red for him, still refuses to ever ride a bus
And her pale lips still struggle with those Lucky Strikes
Just like always in his dreams


for Waterbury Connecticut


Mel-Ramos-Lucky-Lulu-Blonde (copy)


basically a homage to my high school days long long ago in the dream time. no names have been changed all is true and yeah there was this guy who looked just like Beethoven. would often see him making great strides across the green sometimes alone sometimes in company of a woman, always intent on some inner quandary – or so it seemed. this would have originally been started in 1973 and edited and messed with continually since then. in fact a few minor editings occurring  now…. there.

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  • pdlyons  On September 2, 2017 at 1:32 pm

    Reblogged this on Pdlyons's Explorations.


  • Donna J Snyder  On November 24, 2017 at 5:24 pm

    You were a busy kid! Particularly in contrast with my own teen years in Shamrock, where it was the 1950s all the way to 1976. Living in a small town, isolated from any big city to escape to, resembles life in a police state. Everyone is watching everyone else and judging them. There is no privacy and no shenanigans. This poem is chock full of rowdy readiness.

    I seem to remember a different version with more mention of the Beethoven figure.

    One of the things I enjoy in your poetry is your unabashed romanticism, the treacle replaced by ruff living.

    Liked by 1 person

    • pdlyons  On November 25, 2017 at 6:07 pm

      untreacleated truth and nothing but the untreacleated truth. thanks. there are a few versions of the piece floating around. glad you liked it. cheers


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