ponces! nancies! veritable egrets of men!
people pleasing anti-charismatic animals
philistines, every one of them,
everyone else

a curse upon their forebears and a curse upon their goings-on
terrible business, that
the world should be filled with boundary pushing eccentrics, that is progress!
a plague upon normalcy, a plague upon stagnancy
uninteresting, dying off, done
ugh!

greatness can not be expected of all but at least an attempt should be made
how else will we overcome, will we build our utopia?
what use is MY struggle when others are defeated in making a move past the remote
television is for swine
rots your brain and morals
I've swell morals, just look at them
my morals reach to the moon
my morals are so swell I should run the country
my morals aren't two millenia old scriptures written by the seers of goat-tenders
my morals are modern, they are sleek and well dictated, they represent the future
my morals defy the past, my morals create new paradigms
why, you could say my morals defy all of traditionalism
and a curse upon tradition!

who ever learned from the past
history is rife with naught but sufferance
forwards is the only direction
forwards is revealed only to me
my ideals aglow with the lumine of the future
they are entrenched in idealism
me and mine, we are ideal

She—an unrepeated motif—waxes precocious like her ancient self.
Never mind the counterfeit eccentrics,
strange enough to be noticed but not doomed.
Their only burden is imperfection.
She’d die for these people, but they don’t realize omniscience is boring.
In preschool, she learned people are mean for no reason.
There’s no sense in spiting the inevitable,
so she gave away her quarters at bake sale.
Her mother would say, “That money is yours.”
The girl would ask, adjusting her overalls,
“If it’s mine, can’t I decide what to do with it?”
In the future, when repeating this story to a potential motif,
she’d know he’s The One when he’d say,
“What do four-year-olds need to know about capitalism?
Thanks to Walt Disney, they want to conform
and follow their hearts at the same time.”
She’d get off on his grumpy, and then notice his ring.
If he had met her first, would he still have married his wife?
It’s not worth hoping for divorce. He’s built to mate for life.
Instead of turning twenty-six, she’ll choose a chair in purgatory—
trapped between what should be and what is.
As long as she’s sitting, she may as well start smoking.
It’s a fine day for oral fixation.
At least she doesn’t smoke Parliaments like the counterfeit eccentrics.
She’d wonder if in a past life she was a dusty vacuum cleaner,
covered in what she was meant to destroy.
It’s too easy to claim hypocrisy,
too easy to cry genius for discovering what works
when for so long, failure was the only place to go.
She hasn’t been happy since she was thirteen.
The day before her first existential crisis,
her mother said, “Stop being so melodramatic.
You must want to be depressed.” Her response:
“I’m not too young for a mid-life crisis. I just won’t live to see thirty.”
She owes her life to a fear of hell,
knows we all experience hell differently. Hers is a banquet.
The proceeds will go toward ending world hunger.
At the end of the night, the keynote speaker complains
that Alfredo sauce doesn’t reheat well, so the leftovers get thrown out.

The eccentrics and the madmen do cook up this routine world.
Scrambled eggs on an old *** simmering.
You're a bloke, ya yolk!
evoke my jokes!
now scramble my sides!
and leave me to choke!
consume me like you do all things else in this life!
As Vonnegut would call it
"A Breakfast of Champions"

Extraordinary eggs eat elephants' empanadas  
exact erasers enlist every eagle
earlobe extract exit each elf entrance
Evil envelopes e-mail England
Easy eccentrics etcetera etcetera
exiting end!

A million words, a million thoughts,
We've all been here writing till the end of time.
What new ones may have been brought?
It's all I can think of, did something happen?
Am I still original or am I out of line?

"Soon-to-be-victorious" you start the  song,
A dirge of memories past, till the very last.
The rhythm sounds like 'other time folk music,'
Played to an *****-like effect,
I guess you would be able to out-do my
Eccentric best.

Keep playing that well worn traditional back-days song!
You know I was here to **** you down all  along...

In the set square sat a round
racket of positivity, molecules
cherished in cherry smiles
chimed 18 x 9am daily dongs
a song known through sound and
vision secrets saved in silent cheeks
mothed up in ***** of tremulous tongues
tough eccentrics bull dozing blindly
baked on 1000 degress, ovened out
softened in soap suds, sponged
free, out of site of the black dog who never
wags his tail, hung dog look gallops
through the aisles, hopping hopscotch, set
squares sitting with round racket ruminators

I'm pacing the corridor,
that desperate zone
between insomnia and insanity,
sanctuary of  eccentrics
and junkies
chasing a word, a fix,
a revelation,
an allegorical mix
of purple haze, logic and similes...

It's a race of attrition,
of addicts incurring
meteoric costs of opportunity
irretrievable,
surreal,
euphoric,
and misunderstood...

like mania

this corridor precedes time
and space

it is the beginning
of faith and exploration

and revelation....

dead poets live here...

~ P (Pablo)
(7/31/2013)

Ahh...the smell of "sweet success,"

Dressed up in bundles of bows,
Point out all of your "faults" and drill the teeth, braces on for years,
It'll make the "biggest difference," you'll be what you're "meant to be,"
Shove these roll models in your face, it's all about these prudent fears,
We've gotta follow suit, be moulded, from day to day, months, years,
Follow the path well followed until you're the "best" at this old game,
It'll be such a sorry path if you choose eccentrics-what *you dream?

**What a shame!

What if all those insane people are the normals
and we are the crazy ones.

He was going round and round
walking in circles throughout the haunted hall
with millions of thoughts roaming his mind
He was stuttering and screaming
with dull, fading paint coloring whites and blacks
He was going crazy right in front of my eyes
and I was struggling trying to stop my tears
I hugged him with all my might and begged him to stop
I watched my brother becoming cracked and losing his mind
...watching in silence with painful cries...
I helplessly lost him in a super-massive black hole with no return
it was the insanity of a never-ending celestial dance
and I am sure my turn is coming soon.

We are the Eccentrics existing in a world of borders.
We are walking on margins; fighting our masked shadows.

lots of people
and lots and lots
of travelers, wayfarers
and activists and visionaries
and canvassers
and vendors
and realists and romantics
They have all asked for my love
but my constant answer is:
“No, you can’t have my love;
but you can have my money
if I can find any”

it’s the same with family and friends
strangers, neighbors, children
and relatives and enemies
eccentrics and couples
They all ask for my love
but my unwavering answer is:
“No, you can’t have my love;
but you can have my money
if I can find any”

it’s the same with strangers
and politicians and organizations
and great leaders and haloed monks
and Heavenly Saviors
and sports personalities
and charity organizers
They only want my love
but my immutable answer is:
“No, you can’t have my love;
but you can have my money
if I can find any”





The point here is
it is my task to help you see
the world is full of such
good people
They only want love
It’s never money they’re after
They only ask for my love
Never, never for my money
But still, cruel as I am,
my non-negotiable answer is:
*“No, you can’t have my love;
but you can have my money
if I can find any”

All Souls’ and All Saints’ were made to disappear
Easter is bad enough with rabbit eggs
And Christmas was appropriated by The People
As a tribute to (belch) Glorious Excess

But no one has taken Good Friday away
With gifts and treats and two-for-one specials
Down at Chez Bubba’s Discount Liquor and Smokes,
And Colonial Auto Parts stays open - why not?

But while the world spins along on its way
A few eccentrics remember Him this day

Peculiar eccentrics
March to cherry hall plum
Wherein Lovers are statues
The birds their eateth crumbs
No mummy and daddy
Just the chosen ones
Sleeping in daydream
Not woke to reality
Shackled by wordlies
Technology tis slave to
Nothing new
Nothing good
Nothing fine
Nor understood
Secrets
Mean nothing!!!
Something
Means something
No hiding
Like frogs
No barking haters
Like dogs
No nothing
Nothing at all
View the plain
It's all gone!!!

I walketh on deaths highway
Draped and caped by diaphpresis
Hang out with freaks, hippies, and gypsies
Preach prophecy on Christmas
Watcheth thy world end in a handbasket
As demonic beings tremble and groan
Minds entranced
By this strangely show!!!!

I walketh past the cornfields
And city adamant alike
Everyone's in hate and fear
They've forgotten to liveth life!
For hell they've made their bedtime stories
As children follow their ways
Wars for bombs
Wars for guns
Tis
The Devil brings his hate!!!!!

Arrayed in mobster black
I'm fitted to haveth class
The rest forgot what class was
Their tipped inside cheapened glass
And rich turneth poor into slaves
As slaves turn from God
Mothers shake hands
With the bailmen of bonds!!!

The E.R infirmary's
Are turning to ****** lanes
I've been there
Done that before
Quote( I was in mad pain!!!!)
The world shalt be in (Fedimikaya)
The old Jewish prophet said
If thou doth not understand that young one
That means drug addiction wilt sweep in the end!!!

And taketh a look around
Eccentrics with bloodshot eyes
Some use needles to taketh the quick way
Some use capsules of doom and mire
I've been on ****** highway
Looking for to free
This soul in a blissful state
How false reality!!!!!

The world is tuned out
The world hath gone insane
Putting women as *** trades
And God they make in vain,
Take planes, trains, automobiles
Sitting in their box

The end is near
Bolster down all thy tidied locks
Hide gold in caves
Sayeth thy last goodbyes.......

Surely thou shalt feel its shock!!!!

Of late
the sergeant thrill-to-burn,
remains, at best unorthodox,
a cutter’s stock of winsome blend
compiled in slim anthologies.
To date, an urgent threnody
bates, cider- pressed, impertinent
as bargain basement demagogues
renounce their crass belief.

Rude, canon-balled, eccentrics
venting, hurt- inflected metaphors,
unpoured memento-mori, cursing
absence of reprieve.
Misfortune flavoured pockets, line
the boxcar-lite Praetorian,
event amended anecdotes, plied
ammonite in grief.

Lyrical poets, tender, soft, delicate, sensitive, ideal, intriguing, interesting, intelligent, creative, lovers, horror, artistic. Whirling galaxies, bursting words. Wanting expression beyond the usage of language by words. I wasn’t good at painting. I didn’t see a burning bush. Aurora melted. I’m entirely alien to some people, I’m a foreigner to this world, so, this earth is an alien to me, every face to me is a stranger that either smiles or frowns. Aesthetics, a stimulus abuse. Genius writes in grandeur style. Walking slum internally. I just wanted to invite beauty into my soul. Where I yearn human connection. Changing society, changing moods of poems. Moving, sweeping through, my time here is done while I am alive. A poet. A temper of the modern age. A small moment. An epoch for history. Do not follow any artist like faith in religion. Poems, therapy for moods. Words for thoughts. Despite what experience the poem is forming. Call it artistic blessings, I want to scream out loud, cause it’s all I feel inside.joy in happiness is a drug. Struggling humans. Lean upon something always outside of themselves. Falsehood. Can personal discipline result in personal freedom? Process of life is to die. Coughing into poetry, lighting a cigarette, a deep & unhealthy words spoken with the pen, my front line voice, because it’s what I feel, choking cause of the experience I’ve lead, I wanted a passionate life, smoke haze in my eyes. Death is the remedy to personal chaos. Envy the dead. They can no longer feel the pain you’re feeling. I cannot be writing endless poetry to ease anything, it doesn’t work. Dumping from tenets of the heart, straight from the start, my art is made from turmoil. I  am not promoting hardship, sorrow or even looking for sympathy. Hollow calendar days lived. Silent solidatarly within me, I tried to reach, but I feel on deaf ears, this is after I’ve been told how special I am to them, life had provided a versatile charms, leading me into smiling faces, a fear filled journey, I’m bewildered by painful hardship of learning that I’m never as meaningful as I’ve been told that I am, it is my fault for believing & seeing the good in others. I learned how to write not to create beauty or to express, allowing art to breathe, I write to compensate. Avoiding coming to grips with my eternal loneliness that is being passed from eternity to eternity. A jab to genius. Now my emotional intelligence is thinly painted by a veneer of sweet lies. It’s never ending, like the days of the week. Poetry carries immortal love, that not only the eternity of humanity tries to reach for, but lovers & those individuals in those love situations want. Poems dwelling in numberless moments. Words occupying single featureless images of mood-sensations. Reading, they stay silent throughout astonishment of self-discovery. Nothing is secret to the heart. I’m a stinking excrement desolated person. I can construct words in poems. Taken from elements of my personality. I think I’m ****. The very moon shared by everyone now darkens only over me. Without frontiers, a self without boundaries. Finding no ecstasy in divinity of words professing deities. Don’t know if I’m or the transcendental mystic traits re rare in the lives of others, but without reason, no one can purposeful handle. My breathe tore & rasped. As I am living, I cannot be taken away from the fundamental problems of life, I am not excused from it. The eccentrics will always be lonely, admired mostly from a distance, any closer, it’s normally at an arm’s distance. Maybe it's the curses of freedom. Ancestry breeding modern burdens. A scar with no name. A long time in the making. My problems to others, is like drinking warm wine. Life is brief, the pain is deep.

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

              They Say Young Men Have No Ambition These Days

The poetry section is the most remote:
The floor where the staff sneak away for lunch
Or lovers rendezvous for lovers’ arguments
A few eccentrics who want to read poetry

A young man sees it as his corner office
Reposing in a chair, feet up on the glass
Wielding two ‘phones, negotiating ***
And drugs, and his efficient deliveries

A **** among the poets, playing the world -
Who says young men have no ambition these days?