Pdlyons's Explorations“He repeated until his dying day that there was no one with more common sense, no stone cutter more obstinate, no manager more lucid or dangerous, than a poet.”
― Gabriel García Márquez
spring
25.3.11
today out on the veranda of all gone away youth whiskered timber dreams woke another coffee
1
you wouldn’t have to wait for anything to boot up
turn on or upload you could just sit down
bang away royal keys upon a cotton rag of water marked paper
you wouldn’t have to settle for crap wine, Bordeaux châteaux
would be easily accessible even to a low level pot dealer
you could get a soft pack of Marlboro that tasted good – better than the hard pack in the days before anyone even thought of lights
the rent was 180 for five big rooms a laundry room full bath including heat and utilities
you could sit on the second floor back porch blow a joint in broad daylight watch some old ginger tom prowl around some inner city orange rose bush while the most beautiful girl you thought you’d ever know sat on your lap your hands finding ways to make her melt underneath her long gypsy soul skirt.
2.
girls go by to boys that somehow remind you to your own self except instead of love they sell schemes and plans and how to maximize income and output and the most beautiful girl in the place gives her precious attention to someone who won’t even make her come, too busy trying to sell her something that she won’t ever need on her death bed.
3.
don’t know what the reasons for the way we are is
don’t know how we got to be so far away from where we were
but there’s a time a place for everything
there’s a never ending ever changing way of everything
so they say and who are they for us to disbelieve when we can see it in our selves
we cross the street together out of step we walk up stairs without noticing our own eyes
we can’t get on because all we want is something we remember way back there
4.
so much can happen when we live long enough
so many things we thought were no possible could have come to pass
but not believing in the future
did we not live grandly in the past?
my mother wanted things for me I did not believe in
my father wanted me to somehow not be a worry
my regret is only that being so inarticulate I could not explain
how I could love them but not want to ever become them
5.
cannot manage this consistency too well
I know your chimes of freedom flashing
I am the outlaw child of all these blue collar working class heroes
I am not them but am eternally grateful to them
all they gave of their own unrequited youth so that I could be the rebel born
and I will not forget you and I will not neglect you
and I will raise your soft n hidden heart to my own pure unbridled lips
my kisses unconcerned with the blood of my mother and my father
I will cherish your suffering transformation into peace.
6.
whatever went winkingly down the stairs clinkily
open and wondering wounded and proud
never more thinkingly would she be drinkingly
out on the balcony summers no more
7.
how many times have I thought to see you there?
after all these years – damn near 40
don’t I still imagine; come down the wooded path way bend
by that pond you’re somehow there
ghosts haunt the places that the living know
it has nothing to do with where they died
ghosts haunt this place where I grew up
where I first saw you naked
and you broke my heart open before I even knew I’d love you
I know I won’t ever see you now
but if promises can be made to ghosts
then someday soon I’ll meet you here again
golden apples silver apples
pine needles on a summer day patch of grass back by the old turtle pond
8.
today I do not want backward
I know there is no such thing as then or later
and now’s so fleeting it hardly exists
I know the moon
calls me on the road of no stone no sand no steps
mix medi m&p lyons a
mix media collage with crayon m&p lyons
mix media collage with carpet m&p lyons
what could I give you, for your own?
hunger?
but that is something no one else can know
or give another.
I can make you hunger
but only you can
give it.
only you could know it.
nothing really to do with me.
anger?
that is something I could look you in the eye with.
I could make you cringe.
but that is something you would
never do.
hit back,
yell back,
run away.
a thing only for everyone else to share.
maybe something with ink?
a series of needles
piercing colours
well chose by yourself.
images of meaning
secretly placed in hard for me to reach places.
accompanied perhaps by steel?
pure, stainless,
holding other holes
open for future explorations.
how busy will I then become?
new places
usual spaces
and wherever else could I get lost in you?
what could I give you for your own?
whatever have I always done?
your own cum,
my own tongue,
whatever else you love
as long as there is silence.
Sometimes there is that love between two people. You know the kind. No matter what you give or do for the other, it becomes a gift to yourself. Its that kind. You know. That’s what this one is about.
what could I give you
for your own
hunger
but that is something no one else can know
or give another
I can make you hunger
but only you can
give it
only you could know it
nothing really to do with me
anger
that is something I could look you in the eye with
I could make you cringe
but that is something you would
never do
hit back
yell back run away
a thing only for everyone
else to share
maybe something with ink
a series of needles piercing colours
well chose by yourself
images of meaning
secretly placed in hard to reach with my tongue places
accompanied by steel?
pure stainless holding other holes
open for future explorations
how busy will my tongue become?
new places and the usual spaces
and what ever else could I get lost with in you?
what could I give you for your own?
what ever I have always done
your own cum
my own tongue
whatever else you love
as long as there is silence
Along the lane
Straight down as rain
Without wind
Without sound
Wrapped in briar vines
Emerging posts of bone
As if some ancient mariner
Draws me in a secret un-gloved caress.
I wanted to keep you for myself.
I wanted you to stay, because you went.
But the police,
After further questioning
Came up with ideas all their own
And in so doing, made contact with
The families of the disappeared.
Occasionally,
To men in long wrinkled coats, they speak,
A fog of voices drifting apart,
Before reaching any type of destination.
Taking turns, cast looks around,
As if this really were sea
And answers like shoals of silver fishes lurk
Just beneath the surface.
Careful. Pretending not to notice
How each movement flickers in the lights
As if this really were all some cinematic image
Screened with no one but the actors in the audience.
Their silence magnifies only certain sounds:
Elastic latex snap,
Slicing shovel slaps,
Unsteady cigarette sighs,
Plastic, almost echo, abruptly ending zip.
Believing their expectations to be accurate predictions
They came for something clear and full of meaning,
Something settling and complete,
To find, as if some great surprise,
Only the obvious inescapably revealed.
Unlike them I know you not by what you’ve lost,
But rather by what you’ve brought back.
It was that which drew me
In secret un-gloved caress
And now plays out
Along the landscapes of my every night
And haunts my every morning with regret.
I wanted to touch that forbidden you again.
To trace upon that more secret map
Etched, invisible to the naked eye,
Every line of your journey.
To put my lips to you,
Circling with the tip of my tongue,
So that I’d know, everything.
I wanted to sift your powder through my fingers,
Into that coloured jar covered with a brass cap,
Tucked into my bedside drawer,
Sprinkled, whenever I wanted,
Not just as some aphrodisiac
Or good luck charm across my bed
But so, engendered with bodily fluids
You’d take on some other life
And I’d find out,
Just exactly, what it was, that I’d be thinking
As I lay there in the dust
Of the disappeared.
this version originally published by Muse Thing: The Calliope Nerve http://calliopenerve.blogspot.ie/search/label/PD%20Lyons
this was published in 2010 by another cool named yet now defunct blog zine. the archives are still “live” on line. you would find a great many darker artists represented there. the editor was very kind to me and of course many others. the poem has to do with what it says which unfortunately is a rather world-wide theme although it does have an Irish slant; so i think that’s enough said. it was probably written in 1998 or so when i had first moved from the USA to Ireland. we were living in an old two-story farm-house in county Cavan, a bit in the middle of no where – our nearest neighbours were the cattle in the fields and the crows nesting in the giant yew trees.
“He repeated until his dying day that there was no one with more common sense, no stone cutter more obstinate, no manager more lucid or dangerous, than a poet.”
― Gabriel García Márquez
spring
a coming of age drama of the 70’s & 80’s. trials and emotional trauma of teenage artist/writer in small town new england.
http://pdlyons-salamandersafiction.blogspot.com/
Contains adult themes of sexual and terrible words of English language as well as swear words and a possibility of lions and tigers and bears – oh my! And if that were not enough then beware of cigarette smoking and the taking of substances for the mere sake of pleasure and fun.
Not Fit For Puritan Ethic Award
Authored by PD Lyons
Modern Irish American poetry of a very fine sort
List Price: $10.00
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