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

                               A New Medication and its Cautions

One of the side-effects of my new med is death
Along with garbled speech and all the reth
Right here on this enclosure; that’s what it saith -
And when I read of death I lost my breath!
That skin of his,
I could run circles over it.
Skin fine as butter,
It just keeps getting better.

Caressing it that’s not in a lustful manner
Rather I caress it to feel the texture of his skin.
To get to know each and every piece of him.

Physically, his face says it all
It speaks to me in an adorable way.
Mentally, his emotions adhere to mine.
I could feel the happiness that he withholds.

The sparks in the air, the sparks within his eyes.
I want to witness every bit of that.
To savour all of him.
Till it’s improbable.

Those eyes he used to gaze upon me.
To me, it’s something unknown.
That look that nobody else in the room could give.
Specialised only for me.
Your ablaze eyes, stare at me for longer
I only need this moment to linger.
No more of these jitters.
I don’t need all that clutter.
Stay and look at me.
Let me contain this moment.
We are not born with fire—
we choose it.
In the silence of doubt,
in the ache of waking pain,
we reach for a flame
that doesn’t burn,
but builds.

Some of us burn
not to destroy,
but to light paths
no one dared walk before.
We carve names into time
with trembling hands
and unwavering hearts.

Creation is not in limbs,
but in vision.
In the breath that shapes words,
in the mind that dares to dream
even as the body folds.

But even fire,
no matter how bright,
must one day soften
into ember.
Even warriors
deserve a gentle sunset.

So when peace calls your name—
when stillness becomes the goal,
not the obstacle—
may you rest with pride,
not regret.

For the world remembers
those who chose to live
with courage,
to create in the dark,
to love in the storm.

And to my friend,
who walks with wisdom and weight,
know this:

You are not fading.
You are finishing—
and every step leaves warmth behind.
This poem is dedicated to a man whose honesty lit something in me. It's for anyone facing the weight of time, illness, or doubt—and still choosing to speak, to create, to feel. This is about the fire we carry, the peace we seek, and the love that binds it all together in the end. Much respect, always.
I like to pretend the storm that's been raging around me isn't man made, I like to think you're still sleeping on the other side of the bed, I always hope I wakeup to your lips instead of drunken phone calls & empty threats, I think about your hands more than I should and I think about nights in your bed more than I do anything else. I like to remember how you'd smile when you woke up & how you'd pull me closer while you were sleeping. I hope you know your steady breathing was the only thing keeping me sane. I see you in my dreams and I can feel you on my tongue. I wake up to a clenched jaw and grinding teeth, & missed calls from numbers I don't recognise with voices I don't remember. the only number I can remember is yours.
Laugh loudly, walk proudly,                                                         ­                           
                                                                                                              
     dance around till you fall down,                                                            ­          
                                                                ­                                                  
smile until it hurts your face,                                                            ­                                      
                          ­                                                                 ­                                   move your body, don't stay in one place,                                                           ­                       
                                         ­                                                                 ­          
sing even if you know you're bad,                                                             ­   
                                                             ­                                                         
tell dumb jokes & be stupid glad,                                                      
                                                                ­                                                  
drink wine, get buzzed,                                                          ­                              
                                  ­                                                                 ­                 
give a total stranger a hug,                                                             ­                                   
                                                                ­                                                        
      wear something you never would                                                            ­              
                                                  ­                                                                 ­ 
act a fool, you know you should,                                                          ­      
                                                          ­                                                        
this is my recipe for fun,                                                             ­                                                                 ­                                                    
                                                                ­                                                    
go ahead & get yourself some
I am not a writer, I 'm a prisoner in my head,                                              
                                                                ­                                          
compelled to think, to write, what is being said                                                             ­       
                                                                ­                                                
Feeling too much, it comes pouring out of me.                                          
                                                                ­                                            
bleeding onto pages, demons exorcised from me
Death winks at the
lilies that smile in
the rain.
He takes her.
The last ***** trick.

Watered drinks and
syphilis doesn't do the
patrons any good.
Too much grief for
placebos and madness.
Relief must come.
***** and fantasy just
bring sickness, and
licking frogs is
out of the question.

Pipe dreams ease the pain
if you smoke them slowly.
Watch the blue ghost curl
into the feeling fan.

This saloon is home for the
iceman.
So, buy me another drink,
and we can think about
doing it all
tomorrow.
Isn't that right, Mr. O'Neil?
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8k5NY8ZMx3I
Here is a link to my YouTube channel where I read from my recently published books, Seedy Town Blues Collected Poems, and It's Just a Hop, Skip, and Jump to the Madhouse Poems.  Both are available on Amazon.

www.thomaswcase.com
I was starving in
Pennsylvania.
One night, I had
enough.
Done with it all.
The poverty and
sickness.
The drunken mad
nights
and dog-fight days.
Brutality for breakfast.
Served sunny side up
runny yolks with
butterflies trapped in
the yellow sunshine.
Spiders built webs in
my soul.

I stood on the torn-up
couch in my living room and
yelled at the walls.

Listen, you devil.
You want me, you better be
ready for a fight.
I paced the floor like a
washed-up heavyweight champ,
eyeing the ceiling like a
drunken sparrow in a cat's mouth.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8k5NY8ZMx3I
Here is a link to my YouTube channel, where I read poetry from my recently published books, Seedy Town Blues Collected Poems and It's Just a Hop, Skip, and Jump to the Madhouse, available on Amazon.

www.thomaswcase.com
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.
Here's a link to my you tube channel where I read my poetry. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8k5NY8ZMx3I
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