Inside, I’m screaming out, “look at me!”
“Notice me!”
Too, long, too long,
I’ve neglected to see me because I was lost, looking over at others.
Such wasted years, such waste to fears, discouragement in my ears, the many times, I’ve wiped those tears
Stained eyes, they were closed for a period of many, many days, to get new sight, and
To hear the truth within; “darling, I see you; you are my beloved.”
Deep senses quieten, even though tremmers still pulse,
Claiming life within thriving for expression.
I can’t stop; I allow you to be seen, heard, criticised, discarded...celebrated, yes, honoured, revelled, desired, loved.
Because that’s who you are, who you’ve always been, when you were off, waiting to be seen.
But now I am here, and now I begin again,
New steps, new paths; enjoy, embrace joy!

I was listening to roller skating tunes.
Yes, I am shallow, sir.
And though thou may say villainess or mistress,
I am content to be who I am.
One noon, we were over dull
and our hearts we serviced
like two thieves there
in the kissing place
where breaths are both as one
and the first of many kisses doubles.
He made vows in mine ear.
He has such hands and lips
and his fortunate nature fed mine eyes
oh, nothing was scarce.
Our horns locked together
with the intensest chutzpah
and we well-made our match.
We sparked feelings we all ascribe to heaven.
I would not tell you
I can serve a man
that by slow designs
men can melt.
He swore oaths
and dropped
half won.
Later he paid
the sweetest
after-debts
—he did owe it.
.
.
songs for this:
Find Me the Pulse of the Universe by Laetitia Sadier
Stormy (Bossa Mix) by S-Tone Inc

Within the nook of a dell,
a good distance
from obloquy
and inhibition,
floating on water,
listening to birdsong
descend down
the stream
of a musical scale.
Don’t need to believe
or even consent to
any critique,
any look-see,
you are free and light
on the surface,
buoyant and supple
beneath.

Languid movements,
reminiscent
of a weir,
cascade
and trickle,
springing forth
to orchestrate an overture.
This feeling is
beatific,
euphoric,
the moment one of
nonpareil,
bijou,
objet d’art,
and these transports
are yours only
to involuntarily
succumb to and relive:

Rhythmic waves
quivering
upon your shore,
as your limbs and spine camber.
It’s no wonder
you often lift
your voice in song.

So
I will undress
Peel out my skin
Lay my heart bare
Even if I don't want to
Even if I don't love you
If its all it takes to feel loved

it usually leaps like a swordfish out of the ocean
and I’m able to harpoon it,
but as of lately,
I’m stuck with pond ****
and the tuna on my bad breath.

it’s nowhere to be found;
not in the parks,
the libraries,
the liquor stores
nor the circuit clerk’s office,

I tried fishing it out of the swaps of
spitfire and melancholy
but found nothing

I tried to ****** it with an excessive
amount of trouble and *******
but found nothing

I tried scooping the guts out of myself
like a hollowed out pumpkin and
splattered it with a wet slap
against an old newspaper
but found nothing

there’s nothing here;
no spark,
no imagination,
no ingenuity

what I’m I suppose to do?

as I sit here petting the black
velvet fur of my dog,
my toes won’t stop curling,
my nails are bitten down to the nub
and the stink of aging soars past
like eagles on fire

I have nothing to write about:
no unpopular opinion
no peculiar viewpoint
no bludgeoning over
the banality of
extinction

the only logical thing to do is
head out to see some local
band at a Chicago bar and see
where the alcohol takes me

I need the ammunition
I need the fuel
I need to make
something happen

the hard days of labor have diminished me
through attrition and lack of euphemism
but for right now, no matter how
saturated I am of feeling and thought…

whether I’m
drunk on sleep,
salacious on vulgarity,
grieving with quills,
vacant of *****,
dreaming of gout,
reading Géza Csáth,
listening to Sass Dragons,
burrowing under empty houses
or fixing the plumbing for the woman down the hall.

I still
can’t
coax
the word
out.

When I was
younger,
I had to learn.
Sit and wait to
write.
I  would get
impatient and force it.
If you read it,
you could tell.

Now I’m quite a bit older, and
I quit trying.
Fodder seems to be
everywhere.
I can write about
the most mundane
things.

Today I’m at the
library waiting for my
girlfriend to
finish up at the dentist.
She’s getting her
teeth cleaned.
All my drinking ruined
my teeth.
When I got them
pulled a year ago,
there wasn’t a
healthy tooth in my head.
I have dentures now, so
I don’t have to
worry about how much I drink.
I know this isn’t a
good poem, but
hey,
there she is
all shiny and bright…
and sober.

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

                            Graveside Service on a Blustery Day

               “The old order changeth, yielding place to new”

                           -Tennyson, Idylls of the King

The widower assisted to his place
Mourners in unaccustomed dresses and suits
A bible, leaflets fluttering in the wind
And gangly teens unsure what they should do

February clouds roiling and boiling
Even the officiant’s words are blown away
Prayers lifted into silence by the wind
They may have fallen by the gravediggers’ tractor

Or were blown through the leaning chain-link fence
Into the deeply darkening Grendel-woods

But still – in back –
                                                 a boy and a girl shyly touch hands

Lips cracked like old riverbeds,
skin paper-thin, torn at the seams.
I move through the world like a ghost in glass,
a hush beneath the sirens, unseen.

Hunger is a slow-burning fire,
a feast of absence, a quiet war.
Only the hollow-bellied know its song,
only the lost keep score.

Mama’s love was a blade in the dark,
a cipher I could never break.
I ran with the wild ones, teeth bared,
spelling my name in scars and mistakes.

But I am done with waiting,
done with the hush and the shame.
Let the dirt take me in,
let the roots whisper my name.

I was a bullet—
cold, waiting, silent steel.
But before the light fades,
his hands find me, real.

Love like a fever, love like a flood,
a martyr’s kiss, too good for my blood.
But his voice pulls me back,
his voice makes me stay,
before the night swallows me whole,
before I slip away.

Quenched at the wonders of your realm
Feathers crips on your chin
A chest heaving tortures of its time
Words hither from within
Doom fitted in your shoes
A harsh caress of sunlight on her back
Everlasting yet so quick to disappear
Promises shifting through your crooked teeth
Flesh dancing at the back seat of your Bentley
Hardened strokes of innocence  fading from existence
A fleeting being of chaos
Adorned by whispers of paradise
Pretty compliments coarsing your parched throat
Womanhood softening your calloused hands
Pleasure twisting within the veins
Fallen , we have fallen from grace
Reincarnation of a bliss to horrid to taint with our mortality
We were angels eager to break our chain and fall from heaven
Fortunate to have met
Yet Sinking in the disdain of our departure
I'm sure we'll meet again
By heaven
By hell
Or thy holy father
Or the strained curse of Lucifer's misfortune
Taken with two stones and one rock
A mouthful of prayer and eternities of sin
Joyous at the righteousness
Eager to bend the spine of his word
Fortune gracing her bust
Solitude wrapped around her neck
Fresh berries crushed between her breath
A sigh of content
Silence speaking in the presence of the Lord
Grace reaching its final peak
Snatched! Taken before recieved
Eyes pooling at the edge of their carnal nature
No deserves such holy pleasure
Says the devil to the fallen angel