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


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



ruff notes on a blue paper with photographs by pd Lyons



just another piece of my heart

 my little blue wolves

someday soon

the hunter




will come

don’t worry



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.



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




“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


st. john

st. john



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


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