Robert Lyons

by Ian on October 4, 2011

The poetry paints a picture of where my life is. They tell me I am a sex addict, but then again, aren’t we all? I have been dancing with alcoholism and drug addiction, and the love of my life has replaced me, yet again, with a small-dicked shell of a man. I am trying desperately to win her back, and will not give up until it happens. She is my hope. She is my life. She is my home. I love her so much that words can’t even do justice to my feelings. As a high school dropout, she is the only good thing to come my way.

I know it’s not much of a bio, but there is something about that first love, that you just got something write, and it defines your life, it becomes who you are…

Black and Blue

This sharpened pencil of a literature major has been eyeing me across the bar for the past hour.
I recognize her faintly; I think she has been coming to the readings often.
Finally she strutted over, limping in her devilish high heels,
Hugging the empty bar stool next to me with her eyes.
She sits down slowly and I can hear the tight silk of her dress massage the leather.
For some reason, this makes my penis feel a little awkward.
She glides the tip of her heel down my cotton and spandex skinny jeans,
And the bartender glances down with an ugly scold
As he slides the bottle of cheap bottom shelf whiskey my way.
I barely have time for a few swigs when she pulls the cigarette out of my mouth,
Takes me by the arm, and guides me towards the pathetic small tiled dance floor
In the dark corner of this lonely bar with merely a John Hughes disco ball lighting and directing our feet.
For a moment I got lost in her perfume, radiating from her neck, through my nostrils
And into my brain, leaving me floating like a leaf in the wind.
My mind feels lighter and lighter as the retro slow dance music glazes through my ears,
Coupling with the grinding of her bony ass piercing my protruding hips.
Losing track of the outside world as I sit, resonating, in her frail arms.
In what seemed like a flash I found myself in a poorly lit hotel room
In the drunk and sleepy part of town.
Her hair shielding her eyes as she slides off her dress,

“I don’t know what possessed me to put on this annoying tight dress,
Or these torturous shoes, for that matter.”

“Hmm, I know the feeling.”

I can just make out a small grin underneath her bangs,

“I don’t know, I guess I just wanted you to like me.
Scary times when a girl can’t get laid without these monstrous, pointy fucking shoes.”

I laugh, but I know she’s right.

“My feet are so black and blue…
But then again, so are you.”

I get that small throbbing at the temple, and I don’t know what to say.

“I shouldn’t have even entertained the thought that this would work,
I don’t have very good legs.”

“It’s okay,”
I tell her,
“I don’t have very good poetry.”

Buried Under Sheets

Lying in my bed with bloody eyes red like a solar flare;
Staring at the ceiling eyeing the constellations of vicodin, oxycodone, adderal and darvocet
Just hovering above my head through my sunglasses like retro cartoons.
The walls chipping and the TV muted as I drift away.
The trucks pass by, shaking the house and vibrating my hollow bones.
Trapped in wilderness,
Lost in love.
I can hear something crawling towards me beside the bed,
It’s only my dog this time.


They say poems should stay abstract,
That you don’t want to isolate the reader;
This is mainly so you can market a unmarketable medium,
But I will not say there are no literary merits to that theory.
The thing is,
You have no idea how pathetic I have felt over the past few days.
I have awoken stiff every lonesome and fearsome morning
Knowing full well that I could have some dry toast, half a grapefruit, and maybe go for a jog,
Or I could smoke a smoke a cigarette with a swallow of scotch,
Jerk off to the monument of vintage playboys lying on the floor
And go back to bed.
I think you know what choice I made.
These have been my days.
And repeat.
A true zombie.
You might think this is a real shit of a poem,
But literally,
That’s all I have been doing.
Let’s just hope there are better days ahead,
For your sake,
And mine.

Fiendishly Warped

I can’t make any promises,
But I know it doesn’t help anyway.
Sorry may not cut it,
But to my credit,
I knew none of those other girls could ever be you.
I will never be able to escape those crystal eyes of yours,
And I have every curve of your body memorized
From the first time I felt you up in your silky tight dance unitard
That clenched onto you like sweet, blissful lusty sin.
Even in the heat of my treacherously sweaty bed,
I could not stop thinking about how your body moves in my tender grip.
If it means anything, damn, you have a perfect vagina.
Definitely number one on my top ten.
As soon as my tongue hit her clit,
I knew it wasn’t yours.
Your clit is perfect like an agnostic god.
I could pick your criminal pussy out of a police lineup.
“Pussy number four, please step forward, and open up.
Yes, that’s the sexy devil.


Give me the go-ahead my blue-haired demon of delight.
I’ll undress myself for you
If you’re still at all interested.
I’m the parasite squirming hard in your brain,
And I’m growing to crawl inside you yet again.
Here I am,
On your freshly made family bed;
Take me now,
My lesbian warrior.
I’ll be your nasty little experiment,
Suit up,
Because this could get messy.
I’ll be your expendable pawn.
Use me and move me as you will.
I’ll sacrifice myself for all your flat-chested glory.
I’m cheap, willing and worthy.
You need someone to take you to bed,
And I just want you to know that soon it will be me.
Are you smart enough,
And horny enough,
To play this game?

Walt Clitman

“Robert, do you still like my vagina?”
Fuck buddy,
Who I barely know,
What’s your name again?
I feel like it started with an R,
Or possible an S.
No matter,
I’m writing this poem for you,
Whoever you are.
You have a lovely vagina;
It’s tepid and comfy,
Capacious but not overshadowing,
No meat curtains on you;
It’s cheeky but not impenitent;
Sodden and invigorating
Like a Fiji spring.
I like the subtle hints of pubis down bellow,
Nothing fanatical like a seventies Playboy bush,
But flirty and reputable,
Insurance to the fact that I am performing cunnalingus on an adult.
This must all sound deranged and creepy,
But I thought you,
And my readers,
Would like to know what a sopping wonderland it is to curl up inside.
I must thank you for giving my homeless penis sanctuary from the harsh winds.
My penis was kicked out on the cold streets in a cardboard box,
Out of doors is generally not a place where penises fare well,
So my homeless dick must take shelter where and whence it can.
Thank you for bringing in my homeless cock,
Shielding my poor dick from the
Thunder, rain, sleet and snow.
But please,
Don’t ever tell me your name:
I like it better that way.

Wax Jobz

She wants to know what it’s like to be anorexic;
She seriously asked me this.
I was going to shrug it off until I saw those grim eyes
And realized how sincere she really was.
She said that she did a midterm paper on the topic,
And it’s appearing as if she is showing symptoms.
She draws an analytical observation to link this fact
To her fat, obnoxious cheating boyfriend,
Who recently has been completely ignoring her.
I’d say he is a bit too confident for his own good,
Because he will never, nor should he, have a girl like that again.
She thinks she has developed a thorough strategy pertaining
To these shallow events to solve her new found lingering insecurities.
She said that it’s time to punch that get out of jail free card and start the clock.
She asked if she could use me,
Because nothing in the world would piss him off more.
Apparently he is a fan,
I guess he will have to find another bad boy writer to infatuate over.
Sounds like a profound revelation to me,
And I would be lying if I told you I had to think about it for a second.
Believe me, I was impressed
As she slipped out of her violet summer dress
And let down her frizzy brunette hair.
Her skin is soft and gentle rubbing across my body,
But her sexual zest is rough and extreme like sand paper
As she hangs on clenching and scratching for dear life screaming and hollering with
A fire of ardor that would be impossible to smother.
She is taking everything I dish out to her,
Her façade of propriety and ladylike demeanor all remnants of history now;
I have so corrupted this fragile little thing
And brought out a writhing, mewling, bucking, wanton whore
To release her inner warrior, power, and dominance;
Enticing this feral lioness underneath her plump breasts:
She has never been more beautiful to me.
The sweet sounds of revenge and lust riddle through the air.
Rocking our shaking and pounding car from lover’s lane to the middle of the street.
Pedal to the metal my damsel in distress:
Brand a scarlet letter on your chest.

You Wanna Do it, Missionary?

I feel free when I am naked,
On a hot summer day,
Feeling the air conditioning tickle my cock,
Caressing and blowing my pubes like a breeze drifting through dense willowed wood.
Walking, creaking the old wood floors,
Passing aimlessly through room to room,
By open windows overlooking banks, schools, and churches.
With school buses filled with uniformed mission workers
From some small Missouri town.
Overlooking, blushing rose, at my pale ass sparkling like Jesus in the sun.
The door bell rings,
I run down to answer it without bothering to put clothes on;
Just enjoying this beautiful country and my noble rights of man
To bask in nude glory within the confinement of my own home,
And to answer the door while weighing heavy with morning timber.
It’s one of the missionaries from across the street,
Her shirt pulled up and knotted at the top like a summer bra.
She asked if she could show me the love of our heavenly father.
Lay the lords love on me, I told her.
Her eyes sparked with the holy spirit as she grinned,
And came on in.

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