Saturday, August 15, 2015

Summer, by p d lyons

  In June the dead come
October too cold
Perhaps reminiscent of that part of being dead
They’d most like to forget

We talk about the past
After all what else do we have in common?

Mostly women come.
Perhaps because I always went to them
Or maybe death, a vulnerability, makes men shy?
Either way we sit where it is I am these days,
   Outside the kitchen
      By an old apple tree
        Across the sea
           Left behind
            The lands they knew me in
             No longer needing now to wander

Sunday, August 2, 2015

Lessons On Foreign Languages In A Reeperbahn Café by Djanet Tozeur / Slipstream #14 sex food death issue version

Lessons On Foreign Languages In A Reeperbahn Café
for Cordula

trees or torture…”
my breasts were made for children and your fingers…”
choices are limited by the boundaries of the playing surface…”
how do you know that’s not a table?”
if we could meet in Ireland by the palm trees…
everyone drinks Guinness and whiskey, every one drinks Paddy”
“even in the ancient holes of Greece, the big dig and who
wouldn’t give up school for the bones of Archimedes ?”
to find the way past childhood, finding the past of childhood,
the paths of childhood past the personal to the collective…”
who wouldn’t give up tomorrow for a chance to come into Pandora’s Box ?”
well when I am god I shall bless Pandora, bless Eve, bless all those who
turned away from paradise and instead followed the stars
to follow the question – Why? Why everything? Why not something else ?”

ignorance may be bliss but consciousness divine…”

…but if I could meet you in Ireland by the palm trees
yes, even I would drink Paddy whiskey with you from the bones
of Pandora’s ass; and we could trace the historic exile of
our childhood to the music of Bruce Springsteen’s : Point
Blank, The Price You Pay, Ties that Bind, as it tins through
some battery cassette. So roll up another cigarette and pass
the Pandora but first let me see your eyes, and kiss me. Let
me lay my tongue on yours. Let us swallow some of each
others spit, like a Red Indian blood-brother ceremony and
yes you can be Winnetou if you want to…

When I was in Greece I lived on dirt. No not even dirt but
sand – dust. The dust of hot sun and cruel fate, the dust of
ancient tombs split open like over-ripe fruit and covering
everything with a dry syrup crust. We were fond of bonesand
murders, of sacrifices and lesbians and of our Spartan
swords and sleeping children. We hated columns and
Parthenons. We sweated ouzo and goat fat and when we farted
little black olives rolled down and out of our pant legs.

When I was in Europe I lived on sleep. I slept for days in
Wien, Vienna, Vienne, Vienna … Slept for Beethoven at his
tomb and at his little platz by the statue near the
Shubertring. I was frozen in the Maria Theresian Natural
History Museum – lost among the stuffed corpses of every
living creature known to man.
In Hamburg, the whole city is made of sleep. Sleep like a
giant smog impregnated every thing and every moment. Its
embryonic motion grows heavy in a damp heat, like breath on
a still winter night of north sea drifting downward with
hunger, for those German girls ,who like the little boys of
a homosexual fantasy cover me with the slick semen of their
love. Their mouths moaning with love, their cunts hungry
with love, their ass-holes a dream of love…

In the states I lived on flesh. The flesh of pigs,
the flesh of Ronald McDonald, the catholic flesh of Christ bloodless
white and sour… I lived with the flesh of dead dogs and
aborted infants; sucked the juices from the fresh wounds of
teenage girls down in the darkness of their daddy’s garages.
(Dracula had nothing on me man). I walked the ninety degree
heat s of New York City streets. Streets made of skin and
muscle like some giant souvenir of Auschwitz. The tattoos
sweating black ink and muggers. Whenever I couldn’t buy
anything to eat all I had to do was lick the street – Meat
Street USA. And when I could afford to bribe my way out to
the country side? It was for a breath of fresh blood and a
little something still warm from its body heat to chew

… but now we sit by the palm trees of Ireland and we
have hung up our harps to dry. Pandora’s ass is so dry, is
like a sponge sucking up Irish whiskey the way a drowning
man sucks sea. We don’t sleep anymore and the only flesh we
eat is our own. You have met me here and like Winnetou have
taken the blood of my wound into your own. So my dearest
look at me; you have the saddest eyes I have ever known. Do
you remember the peace I stole from you in Hamburg years
ago? Now there is nothing to heal, nothing, no reason to
steal… So roll up another cigarette; the sun is really out
doing itself today, a splendid display of muscle and our
harps soon will dry… But first let me lay my tongue upon
yours, let my tongue sleep awhile in that sweet hole. Let
us see how long we can stay still like that

and yes you can be Winnetou if you want to.

on the occasion of my first trip abroad in 1983 I started this piece. this version was published by Slipstream a print magazine out of Niagara Falls New York (the town not the water) in their #14 sex food death issue. As you can see this one ticked all the boxes. It was published under the pen name Djanet Tozeur in 1994. At the time I didn’t realize it but my work was published alongside (more or less) material by Charles Bukowski. It wasn’t until I was 52 years old that I discovered Bukowski otherwise I would have enjoyed the publication even more. I was 39 years old in 1994. Unfortunately the issue is sold out and out of print otherwise you could get to read his really cool poem about his death. Anyway Slipstream is still publishing and doing the good work of keeping poetry alive in the USA and the rest of the world.  The last line with the  reference to Winnetou was not published by the magazine. Who knows why.  But I liked it too much to not add it on here. Otherwise it is exactly as they published it. You should look up Winnetou, if you want to – Google is the way to go.

from Wanting To Be In The Old Tongue – by pd lyons

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Originally posted on Pdlyons's Weblog:

Bound by chains of lowland vines,
Nourished only by the rain.
The red meat of my heart
Now chips and shards of stone
That even ravens cannot find.
I am most subtle now,
Unable to touch or to be touched,
Only smoky tendrils nimbly wrapped
Upon the memories of men;
A formless thing perceived by them
Only in their sleeping dreams.

Kept alive by hunger.
Eager to be embraced with flesh
And upon the bones of war – like men,
Answer with firm metal once again
The faithful ravens call.
Out of the west
Out of the west
Where is the storm that brings me breath
To let these lips of moss reveal
That charm which causes me to heal –
For when those birds recall my name,
Then will I be whole again.

from Wanting To Be In The Old Tongue…

Copyright © 2011 PD Lyons
All rights reserved.
ISBN-13: 978-1466272996
ISBN-10: 1466272996

When Mercury Is Not Enough, by pd lyons

stripper of superfluous flesh
quickening  silver skates
bound to winged feet
never wanting to leave the earth alone
in her gravity.