Robert Lyons 2

by Ian on July 26, 2012

Robert D. Lyons continues to hunch over a typewriter in the midst of the ordinary madness. He has an upcoming collection of short stories from The Plebian Rag and has appeared in numerous literary, pulp, and smut magazines across the United States and Europe. He was last seen in Portland, Oregon where he started a fist fight with Chuck Palahniuk over a doughnut.

That Can’t Be Good

Anxiety shits have always
Plagued me,
And woke up this morning,
At 2 p.m.
After a nightmare,
And ran to the toilet.
I think I’m like a squid
Who secretes ink
When threatened.
I didn’t know how taking a shit
Would be possible,
The past three days I had
Been on a steady diet of beer, coffee,
And cigarettes.
I sat down at the shitter,
And poured it all out of me,
And looked down at my vacated soul,
And it looked like
Ink.
This was nothing unusual,
But normally I just do it on the
Typewriter
Or in a green
Notebook.

(Lilly, Megan, Mary, Jan, and Emily)

Exiled from the city
Due to the revealing nature
Of the poems.
I even changed
Names (most of the time),
But I am told there are just some things
That I shouldn’t write about.
So when the editors
Grace the page with their tiny
Godlike eyes,
And when you,
The reader,
Think the twelve-fifty price tag
Is outlandish,
Remember that because of you
I won’t ever have rough sex
With the five very distinguished ladies
Ever again, (which is a much higher cost to pay)
And of course,
They won’t be named
Here.

Thank You For Your Time
 
I really hate those
Online,
Mass-murdering,
Submission forms,
It’s even more tiring than the old
Manila envelope;
You even have to remember
Three passwords
Just to get a response.
There is only one title selection,
And you send them all in
One file.
Well,
I sent six,
And rather than putting each title –
Separated with a dash –
On the one space,
I just wrote
“6 poems,” in there.
They actually got published too,
And I just looked at the copy,
Found my name,
Flipped the page,
And it said
“6 poems by Robert D. Lyons.”
But there were only two
Poems,
And they forgot the titles,
Which made me wonder
If they actually
Read
Any of this
Shit,
But I suppose if they did,
It wouldn’t have been
Published
In the first place,
So
Thank you.

Grin Like A Degenerate While You Bluff The Night Away
 
When I see a deck of cards,
I see Johnny’s place beside the river,
Behind that neon sex shop.
Those tables were clean,
Always clean,
And the floor was always cleaner,
Having been scrubbed each morning
By the losers.
I think of the cots upstairs,
And those gold bottles
That used to shine down
On me.
And I remember all the other gamblers;
The gamblers there,
The players,
Seemed to be the dry
And soulless
Renegades of drive-by shooting parades,
Their hearts have been drained
Of blood
And there is no brass in their walk.
They are faded aces
And condemned jokers.
Like so many others,
They want something
For nothing,
And it never works
That way.
But it was a good place to hide out,
And I miss it
Just enough to stay away.
Besides,
I’ve taken to gambling
On myself now,
And as always,
The odds are
Grim.

Our Friend Peter

It was as if the whores,
The drugs,
The bottles,
Bills on the table,
And cold nights
Never caught up to my friend
Peter.
He didn’t know who Rimbaud was,
But he was a good man,
And would shake your hand tenderly,
But firm and reliable
At the same time.
He laughed at everything,
Either that or he was just
Quiet.
You could sit on him
Without noticing,
And he wouldn’t say a word.
He talked to me for three weeks before
I knew his name,
And at one point,
I think I just called him
“Dude.”
He’d give you twenty bucks out of
His own wallet
For just your
Word,
Or even the shirt off his sunburnt back.
He has the most the most beautiful and pure
Blank eyes
You will ever see,
And even when standing still,
He is graceful like a
Swan.
People love him,
His funeral will be one of the few moments
Of legitimate silence.
When he dies,
It won’t be from cancer or madness,
He will just slowly fade
Through golden gates.
I might see him tomorrow night
At the party,
Leaning over his coffee,
Refined, delicate, delightful, quiet and pulsating
Bliss
While some man fucks his
Girlfriend
In the guest bedroom –
And that man might be
Me.

– Read Robert’s first feature on HST here.

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