WHEN the jury files in to deliver a verdict after weeks of direct and cross examinations, hot clashes of lawyers and cool decisions of the judge,
There are points of high silence-twiddling of thumbs is at an end-bailiffs near cuspidors take fresh chews of tobacco and wait-and the clock has a chance for its ticking to be heard.
A lawyer for the defense clears his throat and holds himself ready if the word is "Guilty" to enter motion for a new trial, speaking in a soft voice, speaking in a voice slightly colored with bitter wrongs mingled with monumental patience, speaking with mythic Atlas shoulders of many preposterous, unjust circumstances.

i stand and stare, fridge is bare
no carpet on the floor
washing soaked, heating broke
bailiffs at the door

roof is leaking, house is creaking
single dad, sad moaner
middle aged, without a wage
christmas round the corner
but.....

a little boy in india
not eaten for a week
no shirt upon his back....
a grin upon his cheek

he's never tasted biscuits
crisps, or orange squash
always wears a smile
but never clothes to wash

unaware of fridges
heating run on gas
never seen a carpet
school room or a class

materialistic *******
food that goes to waste
life we take for granted
he will never taste

happy ever grateful
for simple things of need
never witness our ****
of gluttoness and greed

I fell in love with a superstition.
She kept crystals at her bedside
to ward off wraiths and bailiffs,
selling friendship bracelets to
strangers on the internet whilst
keeping family in her prayers.

She would wander the fields
of **** and sunflower seeds,
howling at the moon without
another soul to converse with;
obsessive-compulsive murmurs
of a Hail Mary and incantations.

Potions of ayahuasca and sugar
brewed on the hob in the kitchen,
fridge magnets full of idioms and
passages from the Book of Psalms.
By the fire sat a pristine tin cauldron
with the price-tag still left on it.

Broomsticks were mounted on the wall
like lazy guitars or executed deer.
No photographs, only proud trinkets
and yoga mats; a crucifix hung over
every doorway, whilst she had learned
to cross her legs from all men and pain.

She laid me down on the bed
with a hungry sleight of hand
to show me her favourite trick;
I saw the marks on her arms
before she came alive in the dark,
and by the daylight - she had gone.

The man sat bills crumpled on the table
how was he going to pay?
Worked all his life always done his best
now had been laid off.
His wife had just left said couldn't cope
to her mums she did *****.

Their two children went with her as well
nothing he could do.
As the debt collectors hounded him daily
this was his lowest ebb.
Trying to find ways to pay what he owed
the strain in his eyes showed!

Within a few months he was on the street
now of no fixed abode.
The bailiffs came had done their duty
from a working man to this!
Reduced to sleeping where he could find
to his future was resigned.

Managed to get into a hostel for a night's break
and met a woman who cared.
Listened and offered to get his life in order
that was what he needed.
To give him hope and see his kids once more
again have his own front door.


Through finding that flickering guiding light
he helped others in a similar plight!

The Foureyed Poet

I can hardly remember your face,
left here in a chair,
room aglow with the muted television,
drunk as hell.
A man becomes a pigsty without a woman.
***** stains on the sports sock,
a battleaxe hangover,
bills piled by the toaster
and **** over the kitchen sink.

The bailiffs came.
I cried like a child through the burglary,
drank the Ganges in stout when it was over.

I have been drinking ever since
the Christmas lights turned on,
the town bathed in absinthe, teenage smokers,
Lithuanian women;
no chance of collision with you.
Eternal ashtray, brick upon brick,
cylindrical beams - an empire of ash
and odour. I can't smell you anymore.
How senses die, yet you remain,

stubborn as a **** on a concrete street,
stubborn in your deceit,
my old crutch, my faded ***** in heat.

I am a mess of old exchanges
whilst ****-stars **** on screen.
Fantasy is dead
as my first dog, defunct,
birthing colonies beneath the ground,
frozen over in winter.
I feel nothing. No thing.
Urges clamour for attention to keep me alive,
vague hunger, the need to bleed.

The paramedics came.
I cried like a child through the gift-wrapping,
drank from a plastic cup as they covered your face.

I can hardly form a sentence
in this fast world
of slow days and long aches in silence:
this is hell.
A man becomes a pigsty without a woman.
I see you in my ridiculous moments,
the insanity that stands in your place,
fractured light in the doorway-
my obsessive state, your forgotten face.

You pledge allegiance to a certain type of government.
A nation that is ruled by fat men
in ***** dens who fill the air so heavy with smoke
it tears up your eyes so you can water their poppy fields
and all the while with your right hand over your heart
that beats feverishly with the influx
of toxins that mix with your blood
and dilute the red poppy petal
with clear atoms that bubble on spoons
in the shape of bone crossed skulls.
They rule with iron fists clenched around
green paper that they take from you only
to sell you back  fresh needles as necessary happiness
to counteract the sadness they have created and placed you in.
They sit there with smoke rings coming from o-shaped lips
that ring around the perpetual cycle of
supply and demand-
supplying addiction and wrapping it in itches
and demanding your free left hand scratch
and you do, you scratch so hard that your skin opens up
and the pain requires more relief.
The nation you live in waves its flag with
173 stars representing the heating point at Celsius and not celestial
because space is far away from this place
and it offers too much unknown for you to think
that there is a different world besides the one they own
and maybe there is true happiness there
somewhere where hands are free from swollen veins
that act as puppet strings.
Where bail and bailiffs and bars and blame and
bang your head into brick barriers aren’t standing between you, brother.

little jack horner sat in corner on a pedal bin
bailiffs took his furniture when he let them in
they took everything his tele and the phone
left him with a pedal bin sat there all alone

he walked down to the shops feeling rather numb
bought himself  a steak pie in it was a plum
jack was now depressed he began to cry
who on earth had put plum in jacks favorite  pie

forced to testify for crimes not committed
pushed by many with cheshire cat smiles
the courtroom is a cage with bars of steel memories
no lawyer hired, no amendments required
simply because no one cares anymore
she was her own defense attorney against a world that relentlessly persecuted honest and sensitive souls
the jury full of grey faces that show no mercy
everyone is a judge and your case goes on forever
impartial bailiffs put a gun to your head
until you begin to wish you were dead
what's the point of crying "i didn't do it" to an empty room
so she took a deep breath and for the first time, she let go.

"i plead guilty.
guilty of innocence."

Under the overhang with my hand in the frying pan
I am tickling trout,
making them laugh and pulling them out,but
the bailiff gives a stiff warning and says,
'don't be here in the morning'

A trout with a smile on its face is as good as a bird in the hand,at my place there's a plaice,they can play catch me can, 'til they're battered and fried with chips at the side.
I am tickling trout with my hand in the pan,the tide's going out,the time's getting thin,the bailiffs about and I know it's a sin but it's fun.

I feel that chill on morning and nights air,
Walking the dog with out a care
It freshens me
as I capture air and turn it into breath
Who would think that becoming fall,
Like an answer to the court bailiffs call,
was summers reprieve,
not for dealing, or stealing but loitering,
unless you like that sort of thing.

I'm poor, for sure,
I've been on the floor,
I've not answered the bailiffs knock on me door,
I'm class, not brass,
I break my ***,
I ignore the taps on me window glass,
I'm not claiming, but I'm blaming,
The governments failing,
I've got a job,
A few bob,
But it doesn't put food in me gob,
No frills, just bills,
Poverty KILLS,
I heed to greed,
It's just food that I need,
No security for the majority,
Unless you win the lottery,
In a boat that's just afloat,
As the rope gets tighter around our throat,
Where's the justice, for the helpless,
From the rulers who are selfish,
What's it for, it's not life, its war,
Coz were all poor,
Not answering our door,
We've all been on the floor,
But no more, no more..... no more.

Early every morning
Swooping squawking birds
Leave their liquid calling cards
Before the street has stirred
Where people in their track suits
Drink to overload
And stagger to their rented rooms
Down Blackpool’s Crystal Road

Where the road sweeper doesn’t sweep
And no one comes to call
Except for black clad bailiffs
Who come to take it all
The druggies & the drinkers
Share the one abode
To take away the misery
Of life on Crystal Road

The seedy little B&B’s
Fight to rent their rooms
Sharing each other’s bathroom
Sharing each other’s gloom
Screaming kids and drunken louts
Your eardrums will explode
It’s a sure way into madness
When you stay on Crystal Road

The wind blows like a hurricane
The rain falls like a flood
Washing away the *****
The debris & the blood
The hens are ****** the stags are too
They’re all in party mode
Throwing up and having ***
In rooms on Crystal Road

A *******’s bar called ‘Paradise’
At one end of the street
Full of seedy little men
And women with no teeth
A food bank at the other
Feeds those with no abode
But even they refuse to stay
In a house on Crystal Road

There's nowt round here but wasted opportunities,
two or more pushchairs constitutes community,
"no-one smiles", the badge of indignity,
the most used queue is the one for electricity
                                                             TOKENS
                   high-rise tenement heart-broken,
                       yearns for pleasure unspoken,
               Daydream Tee-Vee
                            comfy setee
                                  casualty
         accident & emergency
........SOCIAL CLUB...
..down the "RUB-A-DUB"
DUB AN' BASS                 Time and place
vanish without trace          in the land of the briefcase
no jobs at the coalface       no room in the rat-race
selling jesus on a pillowcase
while your soul falls from grace
your light vanishes without trace
your brain starts to think............

poetry can be really depressing
especially when you're dressing
to go out to dinner
and wishing you were thinner
and wanting to be a winner
so we can have more losers
more unfulfilled consumers
the last thing you want
is a SACRED CLOWN
making you frown
bringing you down
bringing you round
with the sound
of your round
and round
the Mulberry Bush!!!

Paper money from the bark
"in god we trust", quite frank
promises the bank
of pyramids
the bank of semi-solid
promises
to the bearer
What could be fairer?
Are you a sharer?
or a failure........
to understand
the Promised Land
was always in our hands
till you took it from our care
and made us unaware
that we even owned a share
of this earthly paradise
as you rented us a slice
and told us we were mice
well! isn't that nice
to be getting advice
from the ministry of price
to suit all pockets
invested in rockets
cash crops for guns
fast food in a bun
truth on the run
beg for the crumbs
from the Vampires
from the Vulture
who design your
FUTURE
then  sell you "here and now"
on an installment plan
with a final demand
for more prompt payments
for the balance outstanding
bailiffs impending
more paper lending
PROMISES THE BEARER
there could be quarer
times than this
hit and miss
jug-o-****
just round the corner
of a windswept
tenement block
could be molten rock
or some ****-stars ****
selling you a crock
of something less
than wholesome
of something less
than Freedom
Of a product called
EMOTION-INNA-LOTION
MAJIK-POTION-PROMOTION
BRAND-LOYAL-DEV­OTION
with nothing to pay
while the tides at bay
BANISHES GREY
and gets in the corners
where others cant reach
on a "holiday-brochure-beach"
with your elektronik LEASH
BLOWIN' IN THE WIND
like a flag of BELIEF
vanity steals your beauty
like a THIEF
there’s no let up
no RELIEF
JUST TASTE SENSATIONS
AND SPARKLING TEETH
0% FINANCE
and 100% GRIEF

Listen up,
we're all being set up
to be
written out of the story,

electric's going up,
the gas along with your head
is going up yer ****,
rent.
tax,
rates,
we'll all be moving to Sherwood
living in tents
burning the last of the forest to
give us heat,

mates?
you won't have any
it'll be dog eat dog,

the last man standing
with his hand in
the empty cookie jar,

see how far we've come?
run home and tell your mum
the bailiffs are coming.

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com  
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

              When the Last Catholic Church is Seized and Sold

When at the Last Supper Jesus lifted Himself
Someone at table criticized the servers
For not getting some detail right (“Kids these days…”)

When the last Catholic church is seized and sold
When the bailiffs and deputies are given the keys
(The judges and lawyers will be laughing over single-malt at the country club)
When the vessels of the Altar are sold for scrap
When the windows are stacked at a re-sale shop
When the last Mass is ended and the people dispersed

When the processional cross is taken from the last altar server
Grumpy old Catholics will fault the poor child
For not holding it right (“Kids these days…”)

bailiffs they have been took away my stock
toilet rolls and handwash it was such a shock
take away my freezers with the food inside
all my panic buying has now been denied

now the stores are empty what am i do
people without food. now im the same as you
now ive learned my lesson now ive seen the light
all the panic buying wasnt really right

there is a video for this poem
on youtube take a look
https://youtu.be/YLEVSa59k-c
here is link

Lawrence Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com

       “Never Surrender” Sneakers – Collectible Bone Spurs Edition

Now we have lived to see a president
Hawking tatty cartoon-character shoes
Having already pawned his soul for rent
And now the bailiffs are turning the screws