Tag Archives: art

poems and photos by pd lyons published by clockwise cat issue 36 “Skullwise Cat”


https://www.yumpu.com/en/document/view/56836339/skullwise-cat

 

scorpion night

THE NIGHT MARES

Restless

In a still night

No moon softening

Sharp stars

No cloud drapery.

Against this midnight

The night mares move

Sharing colour with the darkness.

What cannot find them is found by them,

There are no ways secret:

Spiraling stars leave every sky familiar,

Foraging herds by trails of green weeds

Breach every underwater sanctuary.

The night mares

Sleep standing up;

Contain any stallion,

Give birth in the middle of any weather,

Can knock bones, eyes, or internal organs out of any creature.

Simply by their passing

Men have been sucked breathless.

The night mares

Know where dragons come from,

And who, mothered by seas and singing desert sands,

The twin birthed are.

In languages that the thunder knows,

They answer one another.

Navigating easily unbridled,

No boundary deludes them.

Yielding, the only response they know.

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

this first appeared in print in Searches For Magic Lapwing Press Belfast

 

 

 

How Long My Unfitting Skin, The Night

 

she had come down from Gunnison

it had been a hard ride

thin air refusing to support her

old shoes needing to be thrown away as soon as possible

~

met for drinks at The Last Chance

she told me brief stories 

life in the wilderness

ways of ghosts and proud flesh

we booked a room from the man who wore a star

~

make believe log cabin

steel spring mattress

Jim Beam on the bed side

we smoked silent shapes up at an invisible ceiling in the dark

I was happy to be there 

thought she was too

~

but somewhere after moon light

she had gotten up

kneeling by the drifty window

to whatever she prayed

all i could make out was –

 

How long my own unfitting skin the night?

 

 

thank you clockwise cat!

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Just a Cat, by pd lyons


Just a Cat

 

No longer

Will morning find you  pondering the flight of birds

 

You won’t

Trip me in the kitchen, a bandit circling – like I’d forget the milk

 

Up on the bed

Attack everything  beneath the duvet

 

Purr with my daughter and the Barbies

Watch  some favorite TV show.

 

No more my little one

Trust me to carry you like a slip of black velvet still sleeping in my hands

 

No. No more because

Some ignorant bastard drove like a maniac and thought, oh just a cat

 

collage by pdl

collage by pdl

 

ah leave me alone, sometimes in this writing life # who knows


FUCK THIS POETRY SHIT

we the afflicted

compelled

by your numbery

to more and more outrages

until nothing even of ourselves

remains

that which we call our blood

thin clouted liquid cleverlies

that which we call our flesh

never wore a heartbeat in its life

that which you fed on nurseries

a pasteurized knee-less skin

that which you feed on

call it what you will

it is shit

we are all what we eat

 

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Where Her Breasts Used To Be, a love peom by pd lyons


Where Her Breasts Used To Be

he kissed her courage
he kissed her fear
he kissed her sadness
her deep unknowability

because she was his dearest
because she was all he loved
and ever wished to

 

acrylic on paper pdlyons

acrylic on paper pdlyons

 

The Poet As Noun, by PD lyons


Poet as Noun

he did not know what else to do

so he wrote

he did not think of it

he did not believe it to be divine

he was afraid of everything else

so he did this one thing

not that he didn’t do other things

but they were all varying responses to fear

attempts to over come

deny

hide from

himself and others

like the first one to do acid

like the first one to not cut his hair

like the first one to get married have a kid get divorced

get arrested go to jail

leave town leave the country

all the while knowing the falseness of bravado

he did not know what else to do

so he wrote

no matter how high

how angry

how lonely enough to believe that god did in fact exist and had abandoned him

no matter how much sex

how many lovers

how many miles

how many broken torn up hearts including his own

he did this one thing

and because of this he never needed anyone to tell him who was

yeah they could call him whatever

bastard

mother fucker heartless bastard

just a kid

a kid in love

a bleeding heart

ignorant liberal

beautiful lover

hackney painter

failed husband

a traveler of foreign lands

a lover a husband a loving husband a loving father

an outlaw of love a dealer of drugs a rider of fast horses across broken unknown terrain

selfish, grifter,

all these were changeable all these mere adjectives

temporary partial descriptions,

the noun he had always been

because he did this one thing

and then one day he stopped

1974 crosby

1974 crosby

thinking kiss collage by m & p lyons mix media with carpet


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ash myliu KAREN, street art photograph


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that’s all for today

Hossein Zenderoudi, founder of the Saqqa Khaneh School of Art


” People are the same everywhere in the world, and everyone can read my work” – Hossein Zenderoudi

~

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http://www.iranicaonline.org/articles/saqqa-kana-ii-school-of-art

~

 

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pdlyons photo

 

https://www.centrepompidou.fr/en/The-Centre-Pompidou

~

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pdlyons photo

 

~

Grandview Avenue, by pd lyons


Grandview Avenue

We were walking
Hand in hand
Up the hill
In the rain

You had your bright red scarf
Wrapped around your head

Traffic swished by
Lights on
Wipers squeching

We didn’t know what the day would bring
But I turned my face up to the sky
Trusting my own two feet and you to guide me

 

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true


if you think defining a thing is knowing a thing please think again. for example, Poetry. Anything you can nail down is not poetry, no matter how elegantly worded your fucking nails are. – just saying.  same applies for Art, Enlightenment, Spirituality, Freedom, and I’d say etc.

 

belfast

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