in the morgue
name tag tied to big toe

the autopsy
naked to the bone

you may let out a last moan
but that will be death, making itself heard

The scattered words disturb the silence.
I prefer written pages with my left hand,
But it is trembling too much to write slowly
I miss him, his calm hands giving juicy oranges.

Shattered glass falls in slow motion,
Screams in the apartment,
Just the neighbor next door.
Another struggle,
Another soundless fracture
From the outside,
It’s not visible
What really hurts.

I have my refuge.
My piano and fingertips
Strike the rhythm,
Racing to speak in time.

What I want to repeat to myself
It isn’t lush or gentle,
Only barren,
like thoughts hung on a dry twig.
I trace figure eights,
Locked in a simple shape.
I stare and cannot fathom
The logic of a cold two plus two.
A thought-form circles
Around the blue planet.

Something pointing,
With its mercury finger.
It speaks in an unknown dialect
It shows the place to live
And huge fluorescent deserts.

The clouds’ minds —
A piece of earth
Soaked in different
Kinds of screams.

This is my blind chance.
I was born here.
In my mother’s paradise garden
Spinning in dawn’s glow.
Sometimes I just write
To ease personal and common guilt.

I hear tattooed numbers,
Granting citizenship of the lower caste.
And here,
The fresh scent of good life in the morning.
Blackbirds and thrushes fell silent.
My mother knows how to speak to them,
I know how to speak with trees.

Everything pulses,
On this small piece of earth,
Giving shelter to creatures
And stones no one throws.
I am here in a place I can happily bear,
Without cold speculation.

I can still dive into metaphors,
This is my greatest luxury,
The gift after so many disturbing lives.

It would be better to create a world
With only diverse breathing gardens.
I don’t need too much for living,
A naked soul is enough for me.

So, I am sitting in this landscape
And I peacefully hope
That my daughter will remember me tenderly
As I remember him, my father
And all who passed away.

The simplest thing is
The presence of every human being
It's like a celluloid film strip
Left behind the broken ribs
In the left ventricle of the heart
That never lies, never cheats me.

love is a tricky thing to navigate.
to find the right people --
your people.

the ones who love you
for you,
and love you
endlessly.

it's not always easy to find,
you might not have a group
of some
like others.
but a few is enough --
more than.

you just need a little bit of love
in your life,
and you can find it
anywhere you go.

Lawrence Hall
[email protected]
Dispatches for the Colonial Office

                What was Thrown from that White House Window?


                 ‘Why care?‘ some say, but I can’t remain inactive.
                  While Stalin’s heirs walk this earth

                                 -Yevtushenko, “Stalin’s Heirs”


So what was thrown from that White House window?
A burn-bag containing our ancestors’ dreams
Our ancestors’ memories
Our ancestors’ dignity

With torn scraps of the Constitution
To make the fire burn hotter, and hotter still

tell me you want just me
That I´m not just the convenient choice
water when you´d rather have wine
tell me that you only want me
that you want to be mine?
but you cant tell me that
if its not a lie.
I´m your backup plan, not the love of your life