“Peace on earth and goodwill toward men,

HA!

What a lot of spoilt berries that is…
They’ll come around in due time, due time, due time…
Sure they will,
They will come around when they need something,
When life’s got them down,
Oh yeah, they’ll be calling out to you, you sucker…

HA!

Their hearts are what? Whatever that means,
It’s just useless with you, all trial and error but nothing after endless, endless errors?
Why won’t you just give up and concede that I have won?
I have you know…

Who?

You know-it-all who knows nothing at all about these animals,
Abounding love; a principle of heinous fish guts peppered about in a humid swamp of detritus!
You boor me so…
Peregrinating pompously and presumptuously until paused as Procrustes pontificates on my behalf!
You’re a loser, and I think, I think you know it.

Ha!

I’ll have them carve you the most magnificent sarcophagus ever seen…oh yes, it will be…
All you gotta do is lie in the bed they made for you!
Admit that I have won!

Mellitz,

"Has won…”

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

                       The Machine Pauses (and then Restarts)

Within a Dark-Lit Egg

Mechanical Air
Mechanical Light
Electronic Beepings
Procrustes is a Short, Bitter Man Who Doesn’t Like Anyone

Mechanical Air
On the day Papa Benedict died
I lived
And so prayed with him
As the electronics beeped in the new year

Mechanical Light
A crucifix on the wall faded away
And gas was silent in a tube
And when the haze was gone
The crucifix was still there

Electronic Beepings
BeepBEEPBEEPBLEEP beep                 beep
beepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeep
I turned to my wristwatch
But it was dead

Procrustes is a Short, Bitter Man Who Doesn’t Like Anyone
Tubes in both arms, and arms must not be bent
Hard plastic bubbles beneath weary sheets
A plastic paddle of obscure call buttons
There is no time within no time

All made better

Heilige Elisabeth von Thuringen
And those who serve with her
Quiet voices beyond the door, beside the bed
Soft footfalls hastening to come to us
With baskets from the Lord’s table



(Cf. The Machine Stops, E.M. Forster)

When life is echoes in cold glass
backed by silver without a heart
perceptions mold to status set
by a world with no regrets

Procrustes did no less
exacting measures so all would fit
with a bed that must confirm
to the souls with one call

only seeking comfort's balm
from groups both large and small
each with a message to relate
comfort found in silver chains

these revelations will restrain
while supplying life’s gain
in the mirrors circumspect
of the life lost for respect.

© 2019. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20191113.

Consider style as a redoubt
personalized in its goal
to withstand the pointed barbs
inflicted by a wicked world
many molds await the guests
with promises of beauty’s gift

each is a trap in itself
these paragons that few attest
fair illusions are evoked
at the price of willing souls
now prostrate to the task
of luring more as consequence

Procrustes had his bed
forcing outcomes with great pain
now the same made by said
of elegance turned to shame
there is a path to sanity
securely forming dignity

assurance that all is well
while striving for attractiveness
embrace what makes one sing
standalone to charm the flock
this is the state that affirms
the individual among the crowd

the result cannot fall
deep foundations of confidence
even if the pundits cry
fallacies of their minds
hold tight to a bless vision
stated loud for all to see.

© 2019. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20190526.