Robert D. Lyons

by Horror Sleaze Trash on July 2, 2013

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“Robert D. Lyons, first published at the age of sixteen, as been moving through the landscape of underground literature ever since. Author of an upcoming book of short stories, he is most known for his poetry, but also writes literary criticism, political commentary, science journalism, plays, and is beginning work on the first of a series of novels. He currently resides in Saint Louis, MO.”

Waving

 

“It’s not good for you

When you don’t

Write.” she says as she walks out

The cabin door.

She’s right,

I’ve only written about ten pages

In the last couple of weeks,

And I can feel it come to a

Boil

Inside me.

Ten pounds of shit

In a five pound

Bag,

Or so they say.

She tells me I turn into a prick

When I don’t write.

For inspiration,

She took me to lake Ozarks,

A little cabin by the beach,

Surrounded by nostalgia shops

And native American oddities.

I listen to the pinball machines

And think of Hemingway’s

Brains.

The typewriter looking out the window,

I sit down

And look outside at all the tan and young college girls

Taking photographs of one another

Each face more

Bizarre

Than the last.

Their asses catch my attention,

And the decadence of life

Becomes very

Clear

And round.

Truth has been threaded into bikinis

And the tourists look like sugar cubes

In the water.

The girls see me and wave.

I laugh,

I have been in hundreds of magazines,

I have a book deal,

I have six bottles of wine,

And it’s not good for me

Not to write.

I wave back.

My girl’s probably sitting in a boat right now,

In that tight black bikini with the

Marijuana bud on her

Cunt,

Staring deep into the

Murky water

Thinking:

It’s three in the afternoon,

He must be

Writing.

Panties

 

She would sext me

Late at night,

And if she needed more

She would come by, pick me up,

And we would drive around for hours

Smoking cigarettes (from my pack)

Passing the pink one hitter,

And talking about

Love.

Sometimes she would take me back

To her place,

And we would share a bottle together

Because she knew I wouldn’t

Fuck her

If she was drunk.

We once went to the mall together,

And I helped her pick out

Panties,

Whips, handcuffs,

Paddles and dildos.

Every time we got together after that

She would lift up her skirt

And show me her

Panties:

Always something

New.

She got a job upstate,

And for a few years, we both

Disappeared.

But one day I decided to go out for a walk,

And by chance, ran into her.

She was with her boyfriend,

And they were walking

Their dog.

She pulled up her skirt a bit

When she saw me,

But not enough for me to get a

Good look.

We talked for a bit, found out she was due to be

Married.

I hugged her,

Shook her fiancés hand

And I never saw her, him,

Their dog,

Or her Panties

Ever again. 

 

 

Doorbell

 

She tells me stories about how

They starved together,

How they slept together in sleeping bag

Like a cocoon,

About the metamorphic stages of

The soul.

Now, I hear them talk on the phone.

He calls asking for his bong

Back,

And arrives twenty minutes later at the door.

He rings the bell four or five times,

But doesn’t come in.

I think of Odysseus and Penelope,

Romeo and Juliet,

As she walks to answer the door

Naked.

A minute later, she comes back

In,

Wraps a leg around mine,

And rests her head on my

Chest.

We have a bed now,

But I look around the room for my copy

Of Kafka’s Diaries—

 

I suppose I will be calling for it

In a month or two.

 

 —

 

Sympathies for Birds

 

Hungover,

The morning air whistles through

The cracked windows like

Murder.

The minds clamor is mystified

And acute

As the birds in the air conditioning unit

Sing.

She throws a shoe at them,

Curses them,

But I listen to the birds,

Recognizing their tune as one of

Grieving:

The same tune I have been singing for

Years.

Her legs are wrapped around me,

And I lay

Stiff

On my back like a bled

Corpse,

Like the empty bottles on the floor:

Useless, echoing,

Incomplete.

My soul sings with the birds,

As I sit there,

Listening to the

Music

Which she,

Oddly,

Failed to

Hear.

 

 

Women

 

It’s only been about

Two years

Since women have started

Paying any attention

To me,

But in those two years

I have known many

Women:

Mad women,

Women with eyes of fire,

Women with jobs,

Women with no jobs,

Women with children,

Women who empty wallets,

Women with un-paid bills,

Women who sell pills,

And women who never stop

Calling.

It was always the nice ones

That called (liar! you say)

And the calls would go

Unanswered.

I only called the women

Who would not

Call me,

Cruel women who have a fetish for

Destruction (especially mine)

These women were the ones

That had me by the

Balls,

And I could tell you

Why,

But a writer must save some things

For the ever distancing

Novel,

Or he’ll starve.

Besides, this poem has to

End

Somewhere.

But I can tell you that there was

Terror,

And terror can be attractive,

Good for the mind,

Good for poetry,

But for the heart? not so much.

Even while lying next to you,

These women seem

Distant,

And you spend months, maybe even years,

Trying to uncover

The secret

Behind them,

Only to discover

That there isn’t

One.

And these women are the ones

That often have an overvalued sense

Of self—

 

Especially by me.

 

 

A Kindness?

 

They wrap their legs around me,

And I always end up

Sleeping on back:

The pain makes it difficult,

But occasionally,

With luck,

I’ll fall sleep at four or five

In the morning

And wait for the sun,

Or the woman,

To gently kiss my left

Cheek.

Waking early,

Seeing her lying there.

Gorgeous women,

Great legs,

Supple tits or ass,

And faces soft and easy.

I get out of bed,

Pass the mirror,

And am shrouded in

Disbelief

As I wait for the plumber

To show up

And flush this reality

Away with the

Shit.

 

 

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