Without poetry, we'd all
be chained to fences of time.
locked in,
torn apart,
played with by the
cosmic dance.

Don't get me wrong,
the poems can't
cure cancer, or heal the
lame dog's leg.
But, they might give
the ****** hope, and the
hobos a home.

Poetry tricks the mind
into seeing things,
like woolfhounds with
bagpipes playing an
Irish jig, far away from
the ferryman and his ride
across the river.

Without poetry, about now,
my skull
would be a home for beetles
and worms, turning
ever so slowly into
dust.

We are slaves
to the techno-autocracy.
A faith of subscribing,
of retweeting,
of liking things
we never loved.

We chant into the feed
and call it presence.
We echo to the void
and call it voice.

The liturgy is noise.
The sacrament is scroll.
We kneel before timelines
like altar rails
and take communion in pixels.

We have traded prophets for influencers.
Revelation for reposts.
Scripture for screen time.

The holy ghost got a firmware update,
but still can’t answer support tickets.

We stare at our gods,
glowing in our palms,
and ask to be known—
but only if it fits in the caption.

There is no silence.
Only the dull roar of monetized despair.
The din that keeps us deaf.
The bombast of uninformed certainty.
The drivel that drips down our chin
while we think we’re being fed.

We are full of nothing,
and still we chew.

From the shattering came the still
It was a peace of sorts,
That dew caressed morning,
Songs of dawn chorus trill.

This world will turn without you,
The wind won't breathe your loss.
The silence will speak in volumes
Of dusty shelves that time forgot.

First we must remember,
And then we shall regret,
Crawling back toward the shadows
Beg the darkness, let us forget.

And so we never learn,
Sat at tables forever turning
Burning hunger never ends.

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
Dispatches for the Colonial Office

                  Together We Have All Suffered Nights on Weathertop

                                         Gratitude for Friends

We have suffered nights on Weathertop
Made a perimeter against bleak despair
Surrounded in the dark by yet more dark
Chilling us, choking us in miasms of fear

Shhhhh, shhhh – out there – THEY are here – they are HERE!
Confusion and terror, a poisonous blade
Hissings and terror, and deep-fouled temptations
And afterward through the years a deep-fouled pain

Each of us suffers a wound that never mends -
But by the grace of Elbereth we are all stout friends

Lo, I reign—a dubious ******;
Yawning, gaping, where I bear
A Tree of Life, whose buds now burgeon
Under the target that I wear.

Charity strikes a shocking pose
Displayed upon my regal chair:
A throne where what is hidden shows
Within my book of common prayer.

A Catholic joke both strange and lewd?
Perhaps. Yet still, I make you stare…
Such charity seems rather crude
Considering what I’ve got down there.

Oh I lost it all, that Chinese hedge fund girl—
Yes I lost it all, **** Chinese hedge fund girl.
She done me bad, Lord this oyster lost its pearl...

My hedge fund investor— oh she done me wrong.
Said that hedge funds advisor— Lord she done me wrong.
Closed my accounts; and escaped to Hong Kong...

She took all my money, repossessed my Lexus too.
Stole all my wealth, repossessed my Lexus too.
My levee is broke—know what I have to do...

    Lord she ruined my credit—
    I lost my four homes,
    My trusted bank manager
    Won't approve me no loans—

Summer home in the Hamptons: you know she stole the deed.
Summer cottage in the Hamptons, yes she stole the deed...
Oh that hedge fund manger— I'm gonna make her bleed !

   Going to fly to Hong Kong, Lord I'll hunt that woman down.
   That female funds advisor ain't nothing but a clown;
   I'm going to Kung Pao her Mu Shu, with some poison on the side;
   That Chinese hedge funds manager—Gonna take her for a ride.


Gonna drive to the ocean, dump her body in the sea.
Yes I'll drive to the ocean, throw her body in the sea;
No Chinese hedge fund manager make a monkey out of me...

I'm going back to Newport, gonna polish up my yacht.
Think I'll go back to Newport, shine that finish on my yacht...
Then escape to Bermuda—Lord knows I won't get caught.

Take a harp, go about the city,
You forgotten harlot;
Make sweet melody, sing many songs,
That you may be remembered.
                                    Isaiah 23:16

In the boogie-woogie brothel
The clients enjoy
A devilish syncopation
Wherein ragtime revel
(hops/barley/sugarcane/rye/ginever)
Reveals base barbecue of ******* beats:
Dixieland, jazz blues, doo-***, tinpan cakewalk,
psychobilly, funkafied filth, the Charleston . . .

Smoke-filled music overflows the saloon;
(tobacco/cannabis/poppy/psilocybin/crystallized coca rock)
brings a sparkle to the eyes
and red laser pointers
to the PowerPoint™ screen
of Lucifer’s marketing and sales division:

murmur murmur how can we market
this **** tree in the middle of the garden, huh?
—what, the Knowledge of Good and Evil?
people don’t need trees like that anymore;
they want extreme trees—
they want ****, they want antisocial . . .
—yeah but how are we gonna SELL it?
  —well, were there not TWO trees ?
cut one down and sell the other!
murmur murmur murmur

The marketing minions wrangle
Over Satan’s next big thing.
The ebony Tree of Life sits sullen and angry.
Her regal Afrolinguistic foliage be like:

Ima *** PAID fo MY hustle—
Cuz girls is playaz too.