Nobody’s Child Should Be Killed, by pd lyond

Nobody’s Child Should Be Killed
Great adventure
Fraught with spills of Disney danger
Ogre infested roller coasting
Wood slates buckle
In a pre-safety -harness dawn
There are no directions home
Resistance is fatal
No one can verify the conspiracy theory of your life
Contact with those you even think can
Is mercilessly forbidden
(Who are you?)
Why do you think they’re so far away?
No body can stay in one place any more
Besides who do you think they are?
Through cracked glass eye
Looking glass creatures
What will you find?
Where do you go?
Paris in springtime
Looking at you kid
Better hold onto your life
Draped in Shan gri la la la boom D A
Dancing merry as a moth in May
All your wonderful fears
All your fantastical inspirational fears
Settle into muddy sucking reasons,
Reasons to stay home go to work, get insured,
Go home, watch every possible moment of TV
Your mission, you’ve accepted, is non negotiable
The situation is non superficial
Critical mass is a constant
There’s not enough pretense to make a hill of beans
The whole world is looking for a blanket to hide under
If you don’t keep your back turned all the trees that have turned into gorilla monsters
Will get you and if they get you they’ll get me so do as you’re told
Pins and needles dinosaur chimes of freedom flashing brief
As if all the lifetimes of all the worlds were but a pan.
No matter how old you are
There’s always so much more time than that
That you will not be
(Who are you?)
Where do you go?
The simple joy of youth –
The ability to say fuck you to the truth and mean it
But when do you become adult?
Where are those roads you promised to go down?
Rank and file
Basically a rotten plan for escaping.
No matter where you go there they are.
No matter where you go, there you are.
I am's what I am and I can’t stands no more.
You get the life you deserve,
You get the leaders you deserve –
You know we don’t deserve anything as fucked up as we got.
A strung out petrol-chemical nightmare addiction full blown paranoiacs unexplainable any more by mere greed.
Its people. It’s made from people.
The small-scale suicide is terrifying.
You want something comforting like Hiroshima or Auschwitz.
There’s a degree of stupidity that transcends mercy.
(Who are you?)
Where do you go?
Dukes of hazard big brother X file factor maybelline extravaganza
How to be the perfect whatever it is they’re trying to sell this week
There goes your final wake up call
There’s no going back
No post-apocalyptic fiction
No post anything
It’s apocalyptic now
Right now there’s no fucking later.
Oh the wisdom of the west - base your entire way of life on a single
Rapidly diminishing non-renewable highly toxic substance found mainly in parts of the world where the indigenous peoples hate you for it.
There’s no fictional account of anything.
Every book a holy drivel worshiped by some idiot.
The majority of all life is lived in panic.
Which way do we go?
Which way do we go?
The Roman Empire built on concrete
Blood mixed in the mortar lasts a thousand years
You in the west
You in the west
Foundations set in human blood
Good reason why it rhymes with best.
The blood of all the children of this world
Nourishes your unequivocal pursuit of acquisition and
Only the insane would ever want to blow it up?
(Who are you?)
What does it take to fill you?
When will you ever have enough?
You who have everything can’t even recognize what enough looks like.
Insatiable pit, a black hole without even an ass to hold it
(Who are you?)
How do you travel?
To eternity, to the great beyond, to the wild blue yonder?
SUV Four wheel drive of course
Crush the world you see through TV windows
Climate controlled stereo CD DVD padded seats and harnesses
Oblivious to howls screams flood fire
No shake no rattle no roll
In complete safety and comfort – just like your own home.
Oh say can you see
How fuckin deaf can you be?
So much stupidity wields a star spangled nightmare
Of pure un awakening destruction.
If you want bananas
Will grow in blood
Pineapples in blood
Horror provides the blood with which you preserve your way of life
How do you not know?
How do you not see?
How long before the insane old men with their dried up old salt entrenched vengeful versions of arrogant entitlement shit die off?
Where do they keep coming from?
Is there never to be an end of ignorance in power?
There’s no place left to go.
Where do you think you’ll go when this world is dead?
Where do you think your child will be?
How can anyone not get it?
People die, human beings die mothers fathers children babies infants die so you can drive your car and wear your pretty little diamond rings
And before they die they live in misery
So you can make Justine Timberlake richer than god, ralky round the Donald trump.
People watch their babies’ burn – on fire so you can count the shopping days before Christmas,
Have more shit than you’ll ever know what to do with, poison everything on the planet to get it and still feel depressed because you don’t have e-fuckin-ough.
(Who the fuck are you?)
Where do you go?
Cinematic re writes history
With theme songs and celebrities –
There is no sound track to the horrors of your world,
Plenty of human voices afraid
Afraid of their own pain
Afraid for their children -
Drenched in ancient orange napalm bikini smart bomb festival of fleshtuals
Ritualised horror but not terror
Drowned out with TV and Mctimberlake, Magazines, news show and talk show diets
Wal-Mart shopper specials, medicines and miller time.
Why would you want to hear anything else?
When do those old mother fuckers who kill our children die off?
When do those killers die off?
The only question worth asking.
The only one worth answering.
The only one worth hearing
Why don’t they take their own stupid asses to that heavenly paradise?
Leave the rest of us alone.
No body’s child should be killed for any asshole person, place or thing
Even if it is your god.

2011 connecticut
by pd lyons

Christmas

Happy Easter

happy easter!/ Damien Dempsey – Ghosts Of Overdoses

 

 

 

 

 

 

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  So for this Easter I am posting the lyrics and YouTube video of Damien Dempsey’s Ghosts of Overdoses. It is as powerful poignant song done by a most wonderful artist in his prime. Years ago I worked in Dublin at the Ana Liffey Drugs Project. It was not my first experience working with drug users – at that time I had about 13 years having done so in the States. But like each it was equally a wonderful, difficult and heartbreaking experience.
So with regards to Easter and this song – I think the message of Easter is that we, all of us, each and every one get crucified in life and too each of us have the potential to rise again from that crucifixion. I would ask you to read and listen to the lyrics. To contemplate your own crucifixion and your own potential for resurrection. 

I would also wish all those tender  souls that over the years I have worked with, to be at peace and be blessed with a most wonderful and brilliant resurrection.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dz3YxkATSUI

Damien Dempsey – Ghosts Of Overdoses

 Famine days, drove us here, off the land,
They tried to clear, Now they drive you

From The cities, to make way for all the yuppies
They stood back, and didn't act,
Those in power, should have been sacked,
Decimate the inner cities, move them out, bring in the wealthy.

Hey little baby, I wanna take you from here
I wanna take you away from here
Hey little baby, dont wanna see you on the gear
Cos it's so hard to find your find your back
Hey little baby, it's every parents worst fear,
For their child to end up on smack.

There was pills, there was tabs
There was pain and needle jabs
And the ghosts overdoses
Replace the ghosts of tuberculois
There was dust and there was liquid
You could buy for just a few quid
And escape out of the jungle
To return and crawl and stumble

You lie, I cry, Please don't go

Now I walk, along these streets,
All the ghosts, they walk their beats
Up to flats and into stairwells,
Where they lie, in heroin hell
Little kids, they walk right through them,
I just hope they don't become them.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dz3YxkATSUI  

About/ revised 29 March 2015

PD Lyons

Born and raised in the USA. Travelling and living abroad since 1998. Now permanently residing in Ireland.

Received The Mattatuck College Award for Outstanding Achievement in Poetry.
Received Bachelor of Science with honours from Teikyo Post University Connecticut.

Two books of poetry Searches For Magic, and Caribu & Sister Stones: Selected Poems, have been published by Lapwing Press, Belfast. A third book, Myths Of Multiplicity, published by Erbacce press Liverpool as part of the 2014 Erbacce International Annual Prize was officially launched at the Westmeath County Library, Castlepollard Ireland on 9 December 2014.

The work of PD Lyons has also appeared in many magazines and e-zine/blogs throughout the world. Including, The SHoP, Books Ireland, Irish American Post, Boyne Berries, Virtual Writer, Slipstream, West 47 Galway Arts. Recently selected to participate in Human Rights Consortium at the School of Advanced Study, University of London publication titled ‘In Protest: 150 Poems for Human Rights’.

Relevant websites:

‘In Protest: 150 Poems for Human Rights’.
In Protest: 150 Poems for Human Rights is an ambitious new publication aiming to bring together the fields of human rights research and literature in an innovative way. Selected from over 600 poems submitted by established and emerging poets, it provides a rare international insight into issues ranging from the trans-Atlantic slave trade, the Hola massacre and indigenous peoples’ rights to the current war in Syria.
http://www.sas.ac.uk/about-us/news/protest-new-poetry-anthology-explores-human-rights-and-social-justice

  Myths of Multiplicity , all profits to benefit Erbacce writers co-op
http://www.erbacce-press.com/#/p-d-lyons/4586525519

Searches For Magic, and Caribu & Sister Stones,
http://www.freewebs.com/lapwingpoetry/

PD Lyons Blog : https://pdlyons.wordpress.com/

Lovers w/ the Cello Player, by pd Lyons as published by A New Ulster Magazine # 29

Lovers w/ the Cello Player

envy of every straight male
hugged by those knees

arms for which the word sinew was invented
hands entwined by pure blue vines

exquisite needles drawn from every inch
spread through
return to

our randomly occurring bodies
until this moment never knowing anything










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Photo Credits :
1) morgan lyons, The Arming and Departure of the Knights, one of the Holy Grail tapestries http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Holy_Grail_tapestries
2) pd lyons – unknown artist, Wasworth Atheneum, Hartford CT.  
 http://thewadsworth.org/
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

https://sites.google.com/site/anewulster/issue-twenty-nine

The Woman, by pd Lyons as published in A New Ulster # 30

The Woman, by pd Lyons as published in A New Ulster # 30

The Woman

I could not speak.
Maybe loved more gently
I could have.
Maybe if there was a moon
I could have.
But only sun –
a crazy glue
lips sealed
slays weds
impregnates
itself.

This is what I cannot say,
this is what they refuse to hear:
After death is pre-natal.
Through me,
everything is world.
Without me?
Conception is by eating,
birth by excretion.


http://issuu.com/amosgreig/docs/anu_issue_30

The International Women’s Day issue of A New Ulster one of Northern Ireland’s online Journals featuring the works of Marion Clarke, Helen Harrison, P D Lyons, Marie Lecrivain Judith Thurley and Mari Maxwell and many more

Do Do Run Run by pd lyons as published in A New Ulster #30

(photographer unknown)

do do run run
after the show she’d call him
wait with the security guys out back
in the open door way if it was storming
watching waiting smoking.
she’d heard they added menthol to ‘em so you wouldn’t feel what they were doin’ to your throat,
she wasn’t sure about that – isn’t there just too much miss-trust in the world?

anyway it never took him long,
no matter what the time was
even if the show ran late
even if there was snow
he was never long.
run up them iron stairs
and every time
kiss her before saying hello, how was the show?
and walk her arm ‘n arm to the car,
open and close her door …

she was back up singer in a steady small town gig.
the one who wore a black beret,
sang better ‘n most of the stars she broke her ass to make look good.
and maybe if she were younger…
and maybe if she weighed a little less…?

back home,
he’d always have something good and warm and ready to eat
and sometimes in the shower the hot water lasts an hour
and sometimes she’d have a little something strong to drink.
and he’d put something on the stereo real low like madam butterfly
and lay her down until falling asleep
only by some taunting dream
she’d wake
to find
his arms
around her.


http://issuu.com/amosgreig/docs/anu_issue_30

Anu issue 30 A New Ulster

The International Women’s Day issue of A New Ulster one of Northern Ireland’s online Journals featuring the works of Marion Clarke, Helen Harrison, P D Lyons, Marie Lecrivain Judith Thurley and Mari Maxwell and many more