Monthly Archives: January 2015

Off The Book Shelf – Stay Safe Brave Soul


So here’s something I have been meaning to do for some time now. not a big deal except for me to follow through sometimes takes a while. Any way I come from a book-aholic family. My parents both avid readers. My Mom and dad also collected and sold out of print books back in the days before personal computers. He would be sent lists from books shops dealers and at times universities and libraries – searching for particular items. He wold send a post card quote and maybe make a sale. We spent many a weekends going to estate sales, tag sales, second-hand shops etc. Finding things for resale and curious pieces i would sometimes argue with him over – like Henry miller first editions or Gertrude Stein, etc.  (and whatever happened to that Jerusalem Bible illustrated by Dali?) Some of those books are still on my shelves some alas are not. Anyway Shelly and I have continued the reading and collecting but alas not the re-sale. Morgan too is an avid reader and hoarder of books. So every once in a while there is no choice but to part with somethings … So the thing I meant to say is that starting today I’m doing an off the book shelf blog post. Because so many things come through and because we haunt second-hand shops there are many books we acquire with inscriptions and I’m thinking i would like to document and save them and share them regardless of keeping the books or not.

The first is from the book; Endurance, an epic of polar adventure by F.A.Worsley Captain of HMS Endurance. published by WW Norton & Company, NY. 2000. The inscription is to Capt. Beckley and signed by Summer. I  particularly find “Stay Safe Brave Soul…” rather touching. We would have picked this up in the states, probably in Litchfield Ct. area. Maybe the church on the green basement book shop? Maybe you know Captain Beckley? Maybe you know Summer? Maybe there is a story – Stay Safe Brave Soul.

pdlyons pix

pdlyons pix

 

pdlyons

pdlyons

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salamanders green/ Part One /page 1


 

in 1974 I started work on a biographical/fiction. incorporating bits of journal, drugs sex and drama from the point of view of a 18 – 20 something male living in an old factory town New England as he discovers drinks weed cocaine love sex marriage divorce fatherhood etc. it began by the river it hasn’t ended yet but here’s the first part – for what its worth, still ruff n ready I suppose

photo by pdlyons

photo by pdlyons

 

Part One: Do you really want to go here?

River

Afternoon late spring clean water rivering golden sunlight drifts slowly graces full breezy trees, sub down silver gold sparks white water green water brass between rock and crumbling pylons water. Trout water clean fast life death water sparkle moments cascade flash blood scent spotted sating skin shudder pulse lightning trout flesh steel clean pain death dream river of sun of steel of rock pumping blood cold icy blood silt shadow lightning green brass white sun down water river.

Suli has freckles all over her body, freckles well not exactly covering but her face looks like a strawberry especially when she’s sunburn, her lips chap Vaselined strawberry fresh fruity taste other glistening lips that never kiss yet smile a river of holy water down upon tonguing boys. Lips of swallowed strawberry fruits of other faces, lips of holy juices tonguing boys strawberry licking body down, sun down, tongue down, body down holy lips fruity inside with a taste with a scent with rivers and rivers of sweet flowing pouring into a sea of tonguing boys. River of blood life death ecstasy the Suli woman rolling roiling river queen all tongued down into pools holy water spilt down pale wall thighs tongue down boy watching windows reflect a sun down silky skin Suli silky silky run it through your fingers skin.
Anxiety who wants to give up the trees, the river, for the city again? Who wants to break open the money bags piss away good cold hard almost legal cash – paying to return to the city. Cold cash for to see the cold city, cold people, hot people, hot/cold never cool or warm only angry suns sons and daughters. My dream does not see me there. I have no place to go there. Here is life and death, clean pure immediate; each being accepts their own responsibilities, each and every form of life raw open being face to face. Here is not the city, here is not the hiding masked man who can never claim himself, the concrete never stops the flood, the narcotic blood can never give the thrill of pure wild savage unadulterated blood as it gushes through the world, not the world of the city but the world of experience, the world of life of pure unadulterated orgasmic thrill. The icy thrill of a morning that does not begin with angry swollen suns sons and daughters.

I live by the river. I live with the river. I am the weeds by the side of the river. Fly as well as trout of the river. I paint in with the river. I write to with in the river. I make love to strawberry women in with by on the river. Animal amphibian fish reptilian whore-master whore Merlin Morgana of the river. My blood white water silt cans bottles logs sparkled stone bits unidentifiable biological material fish egg strider spider; all living, all dead, all treasure of the river are me and I them. All that is river is me. Dreams words skin sex stock barrel – we are river, we the living, we the dead. All flesh, no flesh; we the river. No river of life no river of death no river of things no river but the river. All that is all that isn’t, that is the river.

The river is dreaming me here with radio and cigarette. I am a river dream watching the river sink into a liquid sky a million times reflected upon a sleeping river-dream. All things come from come, all things come, all things the dream of liquid sleep the river dreams. All things a myriad of simultaneous dreams, none greater or smaller only different all sourced from the river. The same river that feeds trout flows through all veins, the same river pours from Suli’s cunt pours out of tonguing boys pours from swollen penises pours out the swollen sun, pours out the violent city pours out the whores the saints trees wind grass stone fingers singers words all as all as all is the one water one dream split countless facets gleaming countless suns sons and daughters of the same sleeping river.

 

morning by the river pdlyons pix

morning by the river pdlyons pix

Irish Winter part 3 of 3 Hitler/Heaven


Irish Winter part 3 of 3 Hitler/Heaven

12.11.2008

true power - when light and dark meet

true power – when light and dark unite 

Today a bit of sun. Enough for the house plants to take note and be watered. A load of laundry to be hung, after repositioning the tipping over clothes tree. Put on another load of laundry, meditation by the window incense and Buddha nature as far as far as far can be…

Now fire stared table cleaned I sit here typing again. Work some poems? At least continue edit for Bassa Nuvo. Maybe work on Little Russia, its needing major over haul for the Basso collection.

My mother went to Italy before she died. After she died I don’t know where she went. Despite her Roman Catholic insistence, dragging us off to church, vigil candles before the infant on her bureau, even my fathers contribution on the Irish side… I did not believe in heaven or hell or very much in that god of the bible – a little to human in his despotic approach to governing. I’d a probably signed up for the republic n joined the Lucifarians. But when my mother died I remember praying, crying, hoping at the risk of my own self like “god if you’d take my mother to heaven I’d gladly go to your hell”. Like please let her find what she believed in. Let it be the way she thought it would be. I don’t care about me but let heaven be heaven for her. You know a variation of take me instead. I’ll hope heavens real even though if it is then hell’d be real too and well I wont be surprised if I’d end up there. But what about my mother would heaven be a place without her child? Maybe. But I think she had some of that old time stuff you know you get to meet your loved ones again in heaven. I guess it could get complicated like you die and want to see your loved ones in heaven but what if since you left them they became evil? Or what if the ones you loved didn’t necessarily love you? What about that gorgeous one you had a crush on but couldn’t stand you? Is one persons heaven another persons hell? what about Hitler’s mother? Maybe she loved her son? Maybe she will love him forever and in her heaven he’d be with her? What would the neighbours think of that? Maybe each person gets their personal heaven and all the loved ones are kinda illusionary? Like the part of Hitler before he got evil would be the part that would be with his loved ones? But then wouldn’t heaven be based on a lie? Fuck it. All I know is I loved my mother and I wished and continue to wish that she was not too surprised by what happened after she was released from her cancerous body full of suffering. All I know is I’d gladly go through hell if it would help the one who gave me birth be where she deserves to be.

May all beings be free of suffering wherever they may be whatever they may be – now.

its not my birthday any more. I’ll never be 52 in this lifetime again. so how different is it? I like 53 for some reason. I like the sound of it. 52 seems kinda white breadish but fifty three – a little like a sharpened steel. Fifty three, seems to prowl through the environment, seems to be a more sure footed creature, confident of each place it puts its feet, able to look things right in the eye. No regrets.

you cant go with your thoughts even if you try.
you only think you can.
the thoughts rise pass fall
each begins the cycle anew. you think you can go with them making plans worrying defining good n bad self n other but really
no matter how profound or elaborate no matter how many seemingly stung together the weave, no matter how intricate or precise is only woven out of smoke.
your true nature cannot go with thoughts even if you try.

sometimes in this writing life #4 today, by pd lyons


pd lyons photography

 

no matter how many eloquences

no matter how many times I tell it

no one will ever get

how the sun across the oak kitchen writing table slants

through occasional swirls of steel black snow clouds

wind off the lakes swiping all manner of parachuters

slow strobes effect the  blue willow black just ground coffee

hot rocking rolling stones Wednesdays accidental 11’s

 

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this one i just wrote ruff onto the blog post. I am /was just getting ready to work, coffee and the stones kinda writing and i thought why not get the blog post done. By way of explanation to some, 11’s or elevenses it a term for a short break from a 9-5 work day, usually at 11 am. In the states we might just say coffee break. Hot Rocks 1964–1971 is the first compilation album of Rolling Stones    http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hot_Rocks_1964%E2%80%931971

zelda-dancing, by pd lyons


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blue

watering woman

wet wilderness

weeping

in the tenderness of night

Mary zelda-dancing

 made the moonlight sing

again

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when i was 15 i met this wonderful woman. she turned me on to nin,miller,picasso,beethoven, brautigan,ram dass,stephen, watts, and love making. she was 27 and from North Carolina just the sound of her voice had me… anyway she deemed herself old and tragic. wanted to become a dancer or at the very least a dance teacher and to that end she returned to university in N.C. On more that one occasion she refereed  to herself as Zelda.

Snowing – From Salamanders, by pd Lyons


Snowing

The black bird skims the tree the river the rocks and into sky is gone. It is snowing in May. The other day 80 degrees, now, since this morning a strange and beautiful sight, delicate greens of spring – lilacs in bloom, maples in red and the powdery puffs of sparkling white white snow so white. Among the deep rich earth colours of spring – a winter thief. Birds singing snow falling. Its snowing in May and we have to get down to the shop and buy a battery for the car so we can try and sell it. Snowing in May. The car that since we bought it months ago probably only ran right for a few days was fixed and still not right was fixed again and again so to sell it we have to get it jumped hopefully make it to the shop buy a new battery and get it running long enough to sell it so we can get some cash towards buying another with. The baby is sleeping. I wanted to paint today; so far nothing has come of that. I wanted to do a water-colour dancer wet down the paper let the colour mingle disperse, vanish and coagulate, to dance into a dancer. I did not expect snow in May in fact I expected it to be sunny that’s why I planned to paint I was not ready for this day and am in no mood to paint unless the sun comes out, especially with this car thing hanging. My wife tells me all I do is waste my time; all I do is write, paint, read, fish. What else is there to do? And oh yes always want to make love. My wife says all I do is a waste of time. Maybe if I worked fifty hours a week and spent the rest of my time watching TV she’d be happy? I don’t know though sometimes the girl strikes me as one who will never be happy. It’s snowing in May, my wife doesn’t talk she doesn’t know how. I ask her what she wants, she doesn’t know. I ask her why she’s unhappy and what we can do to fix it, nothing. She says she isn’t unhappy. When I ask her then why are you always mad and complaining she gets mad and complains that it’s just the way she is.

It’s snowing in May and I wish I wasn’t married to someone who doesn’t know what they want and I wish I could be gone even dead. I wish it wasn’t snowing and I didn’t have to live in constant tension. I wish I was free and in a new met lovers arms and I wish I had someone else to tell my dreams besides this machine of type. This type of machine that has heard more of my voice than any human ear. So does this machine make me one more victim of the modern age? If not for the invention of the cigarette and the typewriter, I would have no one to talk to!

It’s snowing in May and the machines are winning and the type of machine doesn’t matter only it’s a machine, the only dreams are told to a machine, my only intimate a machine, the only peace is the sound of machine pounding order, pounding everything into order, the order driving me insane is shorting my circuits, is making me die – I wouldn’t be surprised.

I am pouring cocaine into the nasal opening of this machine, cocaine the perfect lubricant making all run smooth smooth smooth no grinding smooth no squeaking smooth no pressure pounding, smooth cocaine cool soft so perfect lubricant. Not like the machine dehumanizer, cocaine the humaniser, cocaine the bringer of dreams, dreams no machine can dream.

~

It’s snowing in May and the baby is in his walker playing with a magazine while I am having black coffee. We take turns the child and I. He comes over to my work table, finds the basket of papers and water colours and is pulling on a picture that looks like an Indian Chief but at first was going to be a young woman, he chews it the background of ultramarine blue smears across his little face leaving his saliva splotches in the upper left hand corner makes it our painting. Now he is playing with my cigarette pack which he is always attracted to … so anyway that’s the story of how my son became an artist before even being able to walk, his very saliva worked into the painting.

It’s still snowing in May the whole world gone crazy, the flowers, the birds, my wife, the motorists in the highway, the whole river-fish-animal-plant-mineral thing is hay-wire and me and my son are having a ball making each other laugh painting writing laughing even at the snow, forgetting everything we ever learned I become the infant and he remains infinitely wise. We are having orgasmic experience here and now – being human, being working here and now we enjoy the good work of being alive. He with his water-colour blue beard, brave little fingers grabbing with delight the bells, the beads, the cigarette pack, and the paint tubes of the world. Me cigarette in mouth fingers cracking away grabbing too at my own life as he is as we are as the rest of the world isn’t quite as absurd anymore since it’s snowing in May – still.

( 1977 )

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Sometimes in This Coffee Shoppe Life


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girls go by, to boys that somehow remind you to your own former self, except instead of love they sell schemes and plans and how to maximize income and out put and the most beautiful girl in the place gives her precious attention to someone who wont even make her cum, too busy trying to sell her something that she won’t ever need remember on her death bed.

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How Should We Not Be Married by pd Lyons


our sameness presses us          self reflected eyes amazed

exploring infinite selves          reflecting infinite selves

 

my mouth hopes you’ll suck the hot wet soul right out of me

instead you accomplish so much more

 

pd lyons photo

pd Lyons photo/ V.de Rage Montairo 1925

 

from Caribu & Sister Stones by  pd lyons, 2009 Lapwing Belfast. ISBN 978-1-905425-90-7 

Lyons_9781905425907_cover

 

Paris Signs, Summer Photo Essay part 3, pd lyons


pdlyons pix

pdlyons pix

 

 

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pdlyons pix

pdlyons pix

 

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pdlyons pix

pdlyons pix

a blue grass kinda god –


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when its all said and done i must admit that i would choose a blue grass kinda god with all that cool meeting again place called heaven. always missed – no matter how many years – my mommy and my daddy.

 

http://youtu.be/BUxF43rpZsI

 

THE CARTER FAMILY
“Will My Mother Know Me There?”

…I have changed with the changing seasons
I am bent with toil and care
When I stand among the angels
Will my mother know me there

Yes, I know that she will know me
In those mansions bright and fair
Mother’s love can ne’er forget me
And I’m sure she’ll know me there

All for me my mother wrestled
When she used to kneel in prayer
Do you think she has forgotten
Will my mother know me there

Yes, I know that she will know me
In those mansions bright and fair
Mother’s love can ne’er forget me
And I’m sure she’ll know me there

Mother’s face has been a beacon
O’er the sea of deep despair
I shall look for her up yonder
Will my mother know me there

Yes, I know that she will know me
In those mansions bright and fair
Mother’s love can ne’er forget me
And I’m sure she’ll know me there

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