Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com

Night Court

For the Prosecution: Spring Allergens
For the Defense: Anti-Histamines and Acetaminophen

If only headaches went away at night
They don’t, and a fresh catalogue of pills
Does nothing except fog reality
The world spins on and on, and sometimes off

The pillow is a bitter accuser
Detailing again all of life’s mistakes
The sheets and blankets wrinkle in disdain
The world’s last spring-wound clock grinds through the hours

Maybe the world will stabilize at dawn
If only the headaches will go away

With an autumn breeze
Wafts of leaves swish and swing
From trees to debris as fall brings in the insatiable cold comes the running nose just
As we drip the facet or hose to keep the pipes from froze. I send my head into the sky as something somehow shuts my eyes and I season the air with allergens spewing the unseen into the light making the invisible visible.

Allergens
Memories
Strong spices
Leave your scars

I'll send them below

Precious new memories will replace
Your unwelcome pain
Napkins and longboards
electronic haze
I don't watch Disney

I wish I
didn't know my parents
But I take this for granted again

Outbreaks
Gluten
Shedding
Flannels before they were Cool
painting my room
two shades of black
Shakira

I'll share my life
If you will pretend I'm awake enough
To absorb yours

Can we become closer?

Freezing causes wheezing,
Leaving leaf spores breeding down my trachea,
Allergens spin n turn sharply attacking the tools that physicalise my life with its ins and outs
Oh 2 see oh 2 breathe oh 2 feel free from the obstructions that structure my schedule to be dormant
Walk up the stairs hold on to the side "are you ok?" No Annie in sight,
Just I, end
is nigh
I roll my knuckles and pinch my palms
Shouldve cut my nails, shot shoots up my arms.
I knock 3 times on the bannister,
I Commit to it being my balancer
Eyes leaking, chest croaking
tight feeling  like I'm choking
Gasping hurts but needed to soothe the need of a response

"I'm fine, just a bit chesty"

Don't ask any more or i can get tetchy

Lecture me on meds im taking
if my rooms tidy or am i forsaking,
still smoking? buffing and *******  that sweet foam **** till it turns hard and golden tarred like caramel muck.  
Just my luck that the something that makes me feel at ease can send me bending to my knees
not for pleas
But to construct a wheeze
Leaving me
Starting every sentence with please,
help me.
Don't even know what im pleading to
Or Who is listening to the self harmer
With a clear thought that I deserve to be preserved and cured of this karma
Inherited from my grandfather which I didn't know until I was told to ask my mother.

Ask ma

She knows about your Asthma.

She's a self destructor
well known for being a self wrecker
A self pecker
leaving holes to be filled by watless ***** carriers
Frieghts of frightening memories
Sure one day shed love to tell me.
But she destructured herself
And left me for others to construct by themselves.

Destructing the self: is the art of not giving a **** but really not giving a **** to the point that there's no fcuks to give and giving a **** means you're affected by fcuks who dont give a **** or willing to give you an iota of optimism
A helping hand
A hope full of hopeful hopes
Hopping fluently between the structure of the destructed self
Which makes me feel woozy

As i struggle hard to say no to this tobacco
especially when it's been weeks
And the feeling of ease is punishing me for a past ive not seen but i realise in that moment we have much in common

Self destruction is our common denominator
Our choice is the same and is made the same
over and over again
Its still the same
results never change
And still leave us with this taint
That we are responsible for cleansing

So what more do i need to ask ma for?
She's giving me answers by her flaws. That's her gift to me,
her way of setting me free
well here's hoping she breathes easy.

I'll swath my cliches
in over verbose decadence
and ask forgiveness in the morning.

Edging
     toeing
the fine line in between
Fighting to *live
- or -
living to fight
in champagne surged soirees
of surreptitious allergens

Some ******* ballad
donning metalcore methods
aggressive to a fault
     that is to say, earth-shattering
unyielding, unwavering, unapproachable
un-*******-believable

You, me,
they, we,
truncated
but never forgotten
Had
but never spent
Forgotten
but never lost

Your name is in my autocorrect
with siren songs and call signs
from generational grievances,
Chivalrous misandry,
chorus discord
callous

Chandeliers swing
low like chariots.
Samson told us to keep dancing.
We were only listening,
abreast one another,
clad only in our genres.
We were so much more
until we were

lost,
but never mattered.

allergens tickle in
like snorting
Pop Rocks

respiratory passages
closing up shop
relegated
to mouth-breathing

until I summon
pseudoephedrine
to bomb the ****
out of my face
Liquid Plumber
of snot

side effects may include:
scrambled brains
traces of ether
floating a foot off the ground
perhaps the sexiest poem ever written
and tmi

In an evening,
Washed with love,
Writing,
Tranquility and thunder in one afternoon,
Like fresh laundry,
Clean,
Newly refreshed,
Invigorated
New life's lease!
Raring and excitable,
As wild child plays,
Wallowing,
In styles novel!
Provoked into action,
While arrows fly,
Origami swans created,
Folded wings tinged with pastel tints,
Dripped from loves pipette!
A miracle constructed,
From twisted paper,
Origami swan can't fly,
Unless caught on gentle breeze,
Gentle breeze,
Brings allergens sneeze!
Captured in sunlight's mesh,
Studied through patterns from a picture book,
Designed with child in mind!
COPYRIGHT LIVVI KENT 27/05/2013,

Animosity allergens,
dark as the Dracula’s dungeon,
insidiously infects the heart.
Vivacity begins to part.

In the realm of my subconscious,
I've confronted my madness.
There’s a monster in me that should die-
my morale withered and dry.

My spirit polluted with hate-
toxic as organophosphates.
The psyche is a perpetrator
who lusts for the power of ******.  

Drowning in the depths of darkness
of my wild imagination,
I’m shocked by this revelation!

The epiphany of my evil-
influenced by the vile devil,
my ego- sinful and gruesome.
Dear Lord, what have I become?

One might as well call this an equinox
For night and day are equinoxious now:
Mosquitoes, soul-withering heat and damp
Itch-allergens and rattlesnakes not featured

In advertising fantasies about
Bugless, unbitten happy families
Posing with plates and carnivorous smiles
Before neighbor-envious chromium grills

And playing free of heat rash and pustules
Around surgically sterile swimming pools

These are not tears of sorrow or joy;
These are tears from allergens, m’boy.




(As Tennyson did not say)

They sometimes call me the gray girl.

For most, it's the dye I  pollute my ***** dish water hair with but
for few, it's the cold ice water that's replaced the liquid pumping through me.

Sometimes I wear men's golf sweaters in the summer.

The droplets that slide down my back remind me
that even abominable snowmen melt and while
it's mostly sweat, it's partially my inner workings thawing becoming nothing but a pool beneath my wiggling toes.

Deep puddles, never-ending trenches to trudge through,
Shallow puddles, the same ones I used to play in when I was a kid. Splashing and leaping until my lower limbs stay covered in rain water mud and my bangs smell like the outside air.
I didn't seem to melt as easily then.

They sometimes call me the girl frozen in time

Maybe for the '96 edition baseball keds I wear in the fall, mimicking the past, keeping it's stillness locked away in a time capsule along with the same ice princess costume I wore three Halloweens in a row.

Or maybe for the worn out flannel from Pools that always seems to be the first thing I throw on my shivering body when old man winter blows his first frosty kiss
always finding it's way to my cheek.

They sometimes call me rosie

Not the riveter, but always for the hue of reddish pink that accents my nose when spring showers and April flowers grace my passageways and fill my visuals.

It's more than the allergens, it's the intoxication of new life with fresh beginnings that make everything seem smoother than the honey tea dripping down the corner of my mouth.

They sometimes call me all of these things, but I've always been known as the season of dwindle.

We (as far as I can remember)
Started out to recreate a sane conversation
In which facts of all shades and shapes would
Simply emerge and connect themselves into
Acting structures.

There was a phase in which
Burgeoning ways and means of
Unearthing and spreading these bits
Occupied and riveted most attention;
Followed by something – Fear? Sense? –
Expressing as allergens to ungrounded factoids
And structures acting not from meaning
But obviously from the hindbrain.

After who knows how many rounds of
Lunge feint riposte I found my little self in a
Small drifting group which seems mostly set on
Maintaining through and despite all that something
Uniquely value-added – esthetic, mimetic, cosmogenic or
In any case fertile in cross-breeding ways – is going to fly
On be nurtured and eventually cover the terraqueous globe.
But there seems to be a tacit condition set in this local world,
That the “novel factoid” stream from ongoing earth-21st century
Goings on be ignored. Which begs the question of why do we need
1,200 geosynchronous satellites to do this.
Or –
Was that my drift?

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

                                           Father Ron Croaks

We have heard the Mass sung in beautiful Latin
We have heard the Mass sung in dull vernacular
We have heard the Mass spoken (duller still)
And now today we have heard the Mass croaked

Here be allergens

Lawrence Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com

                      Bees and Breeze and Lime-Green Butterflies

                                  How beautiful the world is
                                  In the morning cool and clear!

                -Anna Ahkmatova, “The Lime-Trees by the Open Door”

Bees and breeze and lime-green butterflies
Follow the little green electric tiller
Bouncing through the turf from clod to clod
Upending roots and sticks and last year’s grass

Fresh soil awakened from its winter sleep
Eager to push summer sunflowers up and up
Sneezes and wheezes follow the tiller too
Pollens in green and yellow, clouds of allergens

But, oh, the earthen scents, perfect skies -
Bees and breeze and lime-green butterflies!

Everything is hot/cold intense,
***** getting exposed
both figuratively and literally...
can't tell if the eyes sting of allergens or tears
and I'm tryin to hold to my morals.

So, we're having an interesting series of challenges, I tells you.

These april showerings likely may deflowerings -

all the twitterpation makes me vibrate
with feelings of fight, flight, fawn or fright.


**** this