Tag Archives: blood

so I become the Lady of the Rose, Bella part 2


,

(so I become the Lady of the Rose)

From then on I’d replicate that red rose wound

Between the legs of every man deserved it

When I could it’d be the death wound

When I couldn’t I’d still make the dead bloom

– No one would know the difference –

K Bar, shovel, bullet

Later people would begin to speak of it

Actually give the name I never gave myself

No not Bella

Never again Bella

 

Once more re named

I became the Lady of the blood red rose

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What I wrote this morning


I woke up to the endless tragedy of your death.

Sat there

The word, endless like a metal ball

Caught warm and pulsing in my own throat

 

I reached,

My fingers elongate

As if inverse,

A mother bird removing substance from her young.

 

The metal ball

Clotted blood warm in my open hand

Viscous, spreading

A tacky web of darkness

Not of my own

Not of my own

 

I got up

Followed its single red thread,

Coiled into my own shaky hands

As I walk

 

Through the empty door

Through the empty hall

Into another room,

Familiar except for now,

Your little bed

Your little empty bed

~

I wake up to the tragedy of your death

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ruff notes on a blue paper with photographs by pd Lyons


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just another piece of my heart

 my little blue wolves

someday soon

the hunter

lonely

vulnerable

edible

will come

don’t worry

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She on many occasions

felt an entanglement

of her own physicality

No matter how much

knowledge acquired,

philosophy believed in,

a mans world stuck in her head

and not the James Browns version.

 

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our young pale fish bodies

enter paler our silver blood

occult our hearts still

 beat  mono chromatic 

          mono chromatic

          mono chromatic

porcelain knows nothing

of our muted skin

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“Tattoo on Leaving Gettysburg” —P.D. Lyons The Ides Of March Journal Version


may all who journey remember

may all who journey remember

“Tattoo on Leaving Gettysburg”
—P.D. Lyons

For Stacy

The dead of Gettysburg reach out, soak us with desire.
Teaching us its tears that shape their ghosts.

Even down at the Blue Parrot,
Drinking Pennsylvania Porter and Jameson’s
We find ourselves with them,

And at the motel
Phone ringing with 2am complaints,
Does not stop us the living from honouring the dead.

In the morning Stacy’s Chrome Garden
Soft hum needles lullaby beneath my skin,

Winged horses form a few more drops of blood for Gettysburg
While you, holding my hand as if in hospital
Think of ways to further delay our leaving

Because like me you crave the company of ghosts
And too you know the need the dead have for healing.

**

 

from the Ides of March Journal Vol 1, issue 3. september 2011

http://theidesofmarchjournal.blogspot.ie/2011/09/volume-1-issue-3.html

st. john

st. john

 

dmdujour.wordpress.com


two poems by pd lyons published by danse macabre du jour (what a cool name for a magazine!)

dmdujour.wordpress.com

BoomerzI live only in memory.The day to day does not inspire me,Only wanting to sit here and think of what used to beStrung out on the drug America.Safe only in my own home,Locked doors, paid ta…
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