What if I am dreaming self deceit

September 03, 2014 by Richard Lyon in Blog 0 comments
  What if I am dreaming fantasies self deceit happy in normality as life around me what I wish for can never be no matter what words praised admired count for nothing nightmares end in daylight false hope is worse because the day never ends and night never begins to hide  

Spasms as life fought to remain in her body: ‘Wheelchair Warriors’

August 27, 2014 by Richard Lyon in Blog 0 comments
  Hyacinth was virtually straitjacketed, jerking spasms as life fought to remain in her body. Deep bowelled gurgling arose from her, as if from hell, stewing and spewing forth phlegm, each gasp of air gradually being constricted by the cumulative effects of the massive dose of drugs. A she-devil, a cauldron boiling with anger. Stewed frogs ears, bats wings, rodent intestines, all simmered slowly in an unseasoned broth; well, might as well mix the lot. Bloody well sounded and looked obscene as she gradually sunk out of consciousness into the black whirlpool beckoning her. Quite miraculously managing to pull herself back to the living bodies around her bed peering blankly at her. All falsely comforting her with “It’s for you own good Hyacinth.” Growing more sickly and thinner, pain etched into her face, eyes passing rapidly into unconsciousness: “But not yet,” she kept telling herself, even though her mind was gradually unhinging. Saliva dribbling uncontrollably from her mouth, down her chin, more gurgling from her chest as she fell out her makeshift bed and attempted to crawl along the carpeted floor.  

“There’s always prejudice …” ‘The Billy Can Bomb’

August 26, 2014 by Richard Lyon in Blog 0 comments
  “There’s always prejudice, Billy,” he started again, “Don’t like blue eyes, brown eyes, black eyes. Don’t like white hair, black hair, brown hair, red hair, green hair, punk hair. Everyone’s got a prejudice. Everyone. Some people don’t like people from Africa, China, Germany, France, Scotland, America, even from Ireland. Some people plainly don’t like anybody or anything. I guess they don’t even like themselves.” He stopped for a while. There was a sickle moon between the stars. We could hear the river bubbling away over the rise and the occasional car door slam. “Some people want you to be like they think you should be, Billy. They feel bad, they call you names, insult all the superficial things in life – colour – why colour? It ain’t got a magic quality, or a life of its own. It’s just a colour. But they start to make strange distorted images about this colour, and imagine themselves to be some great artist creating a wonderful picture. But the only image, the only picture they create, is of their own misery and bad feelings about themselves, expecting the world to be responsible. Look at Hitler, another artist. He blamed everything, everyone, for […]

He’d never mentioned the killings: The Billy Can Bomb

August 25, 2014 by Richard Lyon in Blog 0 comments
  He’d never mentioned the killing before, nor his medical discharge. Did he enjoy it? I’m young too. Did the young people he’d killed in the Falklands have dads like mine? Were the people he’d killed in Ireland like me too? Didn’t they have families as well? My insides churned around. I could see my emotions being played out before me, bouncing all over the room like a primitive fire lighting up the wilderness, keeping even wilder thoughts, and creatures, a safe distance away from my suddenly felt vulnerability. I was upside down with my head heavy from the rush of blood. Is growing up always this painful? Is it always so difficult finding out how adults behave, as stories of Father Christmas are buried and forgotten? I got out of bed. Dad was still in the living room, sitting next to a subdued light from a table lamp, as he flicked through some old photographs. “Dad,” I asked, “can we talk?” “Sure, you know me – any time, any place, any subject,” and laughed gently. I sat next to him because happy memories of being a child flooded back into the vacuum of uncertainty the turmoil had left behind. […]

If Freud had been born in Berlin

August 24, 2014 by Richard Lyon in Blog 0 comments
  wasteland acres and acres black and white grained faded old looked at me photographs showcased opposite Brandenburg’s Gate denoted before modernity the city’s edge then a wall segmented constructed ugly violent brutal separated east from west humanity from humanity divided the soul’s hemisphere as a brain is both left and right cells trillions of currency in denominations too many to name as crosses mark and identify those killed jumping from east to west from right to left filled the waste to prove a point Checkpoint Charlie a global till dispensed cash no questions asked now what for us remains? people mill cars roar lights blink red green to ease the meanderings of pedestrians cameras slung bags shouldered gawp at could this have been a war would millions have died for this space vacuum at the heart of power politics the Reich’s tag was dreams glistened in plastic a recent memory an old aberration lacerated by rain’s damp clouds pock marked in a frenzied nightmare before awakening most now filled some remain sole reminders as graffiti Russian Cyrillic etched into stone we queued orderly through the glass portcullis slipped open crossed into history totally refurbished and walked into the lift […]

Why did Judy want to take her life? ‘When the String Breaks’

August 23, 2014 by Richard Lyon in Blog 0 comments
  I asked Shelagh and Dad why Judy should want to take her life. She was my age, we shared the same star sign and I’d known her since junior school. We were friends of sorts, hanging around the same gangs. Not really close, but sufficiently so to talk about our lives. You know, the usual stuff: parents, teachers, adults generally. Fads, fashion, music and school. Then the deeper, more intimate stuff: dreams, desires and heartaches. She’d left school before I did, and though clever, could never connect her abilities to ambition. Not lost exactly, more despondent, always worried about something. Maybe she thought her seriousness had no future. Judy, always at a loose end, seemed to be searching for a missing piece of her own personal jigsaw. A piece which, once found, would complete the picture, enable her to make sense of her life, giving meaning to what she was doing.  

Budapest’s Mobile Symphony: Poem

August 22, 2014 by Richard Lyon in Blog 0 comments
  sharp suits, well shined shoes important meet of VIPS generals civilians bankers and me gathered in the Parliament building diased speakers clicking on microphones filled the chamber with important people speak world co-ordinated synchronised mobile symphony day tuned to classic sounds, wake the sleeping spoil the mood of restaurants films theatre nights incandescent noise ear drums burst to capacity of rude awakenings not waited precision arranged planned, co-ordinated advance guard of music orchestration as the second hand ticks close to midday the phones begin the first dozen the second dozen then cac a phony of tunes discordant Beethoven Mozart Vivaldi Rossini melange for thirty seconds disruption bursts on the solemnity of imposted delegates world matters impaled on notes of music to an anarchists ears world day for mobile symphony