When evilness is dripping from the trees
And blades of grass are real and cutting you
When the wind comes from a raging furnace
And singes the hair on your trembling arms
When wickedness becomes the music in the air
And treachery the key that starts the engines
When a handshake is somehow pernicious
And wretchedness the flavor of the week

You are in the land of jealous lovers
Loathing what has long been gone
Winners who despise the losers
Living in a boiling rage
That seethes for over 40 years
And taints the mercies of the present
Making it impossible
To ever quench the fires of hate.
           ljm

What would I do if I lost you?
Nothing much - things wouldn’t change-
I might wonder why the sun didn’t shine any more-
Or where all the crickets went,
But I would go on as usual
And not even notice the absence of gladness
Or all the dust gathering on my dreams.

What would I say if I lost you?
Nothing really - I’d make no comment-
Except on how raspy my song had grown-
And how dried up my pen had become.
Still I’d bump along same as always
And pay little mind to the paucity of laughter
Or the wetness corroding my cheeks.

How would I feel if I lost you?
No different - I’d be the same-
Oh I might pretend a bit more than usual
And invent a few things for myself,
But I’d get long quite serenely,
And never give note the casket
Standing ready to be my new home.
Ls

Lawrence Hall
[email protected]  
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

                     Visiting a Friend in his Hospital Room

                                               For Tod

So there you were with a tube in your arm
And a crossword puzzle and pen in your hands
And a lovely view of a sunlit roof
With windblown debris whipping between the vents

An assembly of physicians in conclave met
At the foot of your bed to discuss your future
One of them but a face on a telescreen -
One thinks of The Head in That Hideous Strength

I think of you comfortably back home tonight
An ikon (and a brandy) on the table beside you

-
video—
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vPiIEcwoDHM


One is supposed to sleep with the intention of repairing the mind and the body of all those ills encountered in daily life, but This night was not one for rest. I think the clock was reading 9:53 last I had glanced, but it could have been 3:59 or sumthin.

Anyway, my eyes opened to the stature of a very tall and muscular fellow holding a pitchfork to my side. He said "Miss Seranaea Jones, you have been selected to participate in a wonderous event. Your going to tour the finest Pits of Hell and all of the recent improvements. Satan has"personally" endorsed this invitation to you, so we must be on our way !"

I think at that moment I said, "its not done yet, let it cook a while longer".

I was not really capturing current events, so he jabbed that pitchfork deeper and pushed me right off the bed. Frickin hurt too, so realizing
that this was gonna be a non-negotiable parlay, I agreed to his terms.

(or "It", I dunno... this dood was holding a pitchfork on me and I couldn't find my gun)

We went outside to his vehicle. It was Hottest **** thing I ever saw !
We got inside and I was surrounded by blinking indicators, computer graphics and some serious leather seats and solid wood paneling. He said "Please fasten your seatbelt, it is not currently permissible to have you killed". I said "Thanks" with a fearful stare of a chicken being held by its throat.

He started the engine and Ohh !!!— such an immaculate sound emanated from it. With one pull of the gearshift we plunged STRAIGHT DOWN. Before I passed out I saw what looked like platoons of dragons in formation poised to venture upwards into to midst of the Earth. My last element of memory was of cheeks rippling with the force of acceleration.


Having survived the trip down to the Negative Pearly Gates, the next thing I knew I was in a fish and ski motor boat cruising the River Styx. Had all those extras too, depth finders and flat monitors that surrounded the driver position— the screens were filled with the ******...


ummm—
wished i had not looked into the rear view mirror,
looking back was a version of myself as some
mummified shriveled past-tense
Seranaea  "thing"—
                                      — ughhh

He pointed to the sign at the entrance. It looked new enough, but was marred by bullet holes and deep scrapes.

It said—

                       "Ye who enter, Abandon All Hope.
                              ATMs are available inside.
                                        No Smoking"  

He said "My apologies for the condition of this entrance, we just recently had some particularly unruly admissions". I nervously nodded, thinking on how unruly I was upstairs to have become a Hellbound tourist.

The next thing I noticed were the creatures in the water, their mouths gaping wide, wrapped by bedsheet-white skin tightened around skulls and pairs of hollowed eyes. They were screaming knives into my soul.
My captor said "reach into this bag and throw one of these out to them"  
It was a bag of charcoal briquettes, so I took one and threw it. One of those creatures snapped it up and then slipped back underwater.

Cool !!

I did this a number of times, skipping the briquettes and watching them get snatched as like so many minnows gulping down bread crumbs. I was really getting the hang of it by the time I suddenly Slipped And Fell !! –splashing into the water as these things start immediately towards me, reaching for new flesh with long sharp Nails When I—

4 AM

Woke Up !
Wet—

wrapped tight
in a bed sheet—

peppered with
blacken 
fingerprints...



think id better be a good girl
from now on !!!



s jones
2007


.

Lawrence Hall
[email protected]  
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

                  The Culture Wars We’ve Been Hearing About

Corporal Keats flung himself into the trench
“It’s no good,” he gasped, lighting a cigarette
“The Free Versifiers have ta’en our outposts
We spiked our sonnets but our blank verse is lost”

“And there’s an end on’t,” cried Corporal Johnson
“You will hear thunder,” sighed Corporal Ahkmatova
“Maybe we took the wrong road,” said Corporal Frost
“Where is Yevtushenko?” asked Corporal Tsvetaeva

“Back in Moscow, awarding himself the George Cross
And promoting himself to field marshal”

Five-thirty has its own regard
For my reflection in a flat,
Tripartite looking glass above
The shaving sink where a trick of
Light removes it from the middle
Panel as I carelessly leave
It slightly unclosed so that my
Face is displaced, the mirror not
Returning recognizable
Information concerning my
Disappearance, which is no more
Amazing in the early light
Than the evening carnival with
It's unrelenting fun house view.

Here comes another
classic case of
writer's block.
**** soft,
I spew
across the
white pages.
Maybe age is
catching up
with me.
Time has been
a friend,
but I'm only as
good as my last poem.
I long for the days
when songs filled
my heart, where every
part of me smelled
the rain and the
wet dogs, and the
streets of Spain.
The pain was always
fodder, the joy, the sadness
the madness of love and
*** and passion.
The rancid anger and rage
became the words of
a sage when I broke
out the notebook.

Not tonight though,
I will wait for the
******* and the blood
to simmer in
the red dot on the
white snow.
Patiently waiting for
the hemorrhaging of
the soul.

Lawrence Hall
[email protected]  
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

                     Algorithm, Algorithm, Algorithm, Bah, Bah, Bah

Parroting a trendy word is not art
So let’s stop babbling about “algorithm”
Lest we drop our readers into the lowest part
Of their 24-hour circadian rhythm