The day was wet, the rain fell *****
Like jars of strawberry jam, [1] a
sound was heard in the old henhouse,
A beating of a hammer.
Of stalwart form, and visage warm,
Two youths were seen within it,
Splitting up an old tree into perches for their poultry
At a hundred strokes [2] a minute.
The work is done, the hen has taken
Possession of her nest and eggs,
Without a thought of eggs and bacon, [3]
(Or I am very much mistaken happy)
She turns over each shell,
To be sure that all's well,
Looks into the straw
To see there's no flaw,
Goes once round the house, [4]
Half afraid of a mouse,
Then sinks calmly to rest
On the top of her nest,
First doubling up each of her legs.
Time rolled away, and so did every shell,
"Small by degrees and beautifully less,"
As the large mother with a powerful spell [5]
Forced each in turn its contents to express, [6]
But ah! "imperfect is expression,"
Some poet said, I don't care who,
If you want to know you must go elsewhere,
One fact I can tell, if you're willing to hear,
He never attended a Parliament Session,
For I'm certain that if he had ever been there,
Full quickly would he have changed his ideas,
With the hissings, the hootings, the groans and the cheers.
And as to his name it is pretty clear
That it wasn't me and it wasn't you!

And so it fell upon a day,
(That is, it never rose again)
A chick was found upon the hay,
Its little life had ebbed away.
No longer frolicsome and gay,
No longer could it run or play.
"And must we, chicken, must we part?"
Its master [7] cried with bursting heart,
And voice of agony and pain.
So one, whose ticket's marked "Return", [8]
When to the lonely roadside station
He flies in fear and perturbation,
Thinks of his home--the hissing urn--
Then runs with flying hat and hair,
And, entering, finds to his despair
He's missed the very last train. [9]

Too long it were to tell of each conjecture
Of chicken suicide, and poultry victim,
The deadly frown, the stern and dreary lecture,
The timid guess, "perhaps some needle pricked him!"
The din of voice, the words both loud and many,
The sob, the tear, the sigh that none could smother,
Till all agreed "a shilling to a penny
It killed itself, and we acquit the mother!"
Scarce was the verdict spoken,
When that still calm was broken,
A childish form hath burst into the throng;
With tears and looks of sadness,
That bring no news of gladness,
But tell too surely something hath gone wrong!
"The sight I have come upon
The stoutest heart [10] would sicken,
That nasty hen has been and gone
And killed another chicken!"

Today I straightened all of the hairs on my head
whether they needed it or not.  I like being organized.
Ironing out the kinks in my leather jacket with a baseball bat.
I try to cut the blues from the spinning record,
flicked numbered matchsticks across vinyl to
set the fleshed room on fire,
don’t touch me, I’m a real live wire.

Being on top of my **** is like handmaking
beeswax candles, I twist & turn, carving wax
in the air—There is always more to do, I
always tried to cross t’s and
sort the junk mail from the paychecks,
accidentally dropping cigarettes into the piles of post.

Out of the corner of my eye, I watched you
lick postage stamps for the outgoing flood.  
The laundry gets done even though I’m
too tired to pull my key out of the door.

I am in control of my own destiny.

I smoke Coca Cola & drink cigarettes for breakfast
because I don’t roll out of bed on the right side
of any given day, and
yesterday I put my foot
through the television
because tap-dancing on the shards
of the wood-paneled tube from dad’s first marriage
sings gnashed-teeth harmonies
with the microwave’s low groan at 3AM—

I used to eat cold spaghetti in torn jeans and nothing else
while you flipped through channels on basic cable
to hear the collage painting the end of the world.  You were
always an empty can that year, you saved
orange peels to fill with oil to burn—
your name whispers itself into the grease hissings and
I hear it over the skyline and I cannot seem to find a match
to strike to light the last crumpled smoke in my pack—

All I want to do is send you photographs with singed corners,
photographs of your letters, attempts to burn away
any sight of you, ways to cut&bin;; the flint that ignites
the only bonfire in my eye.

And sometimes I wish I could just scream at you until
the flowers crawl up the brick walls of your apartment;
my kitchen smells concrete like celluloid ashes and
if I snap my fingers to break broken promises and
floss my teeth with violin strings I might not miss you
anymore.

Focusing-Upon Something is
to be focusing on a thing or upon such a thing,
while any sort or kind of focus loss and the such, as in
the process of losing a focused state or condition of cognitive accuracy, is said to be plainly
unfocused, or otherwise
unfocusing or having unfocused said thing
or, it might also be said to have lost
a focus, maybe together with
on or upon followed by it, such so often is the said thing.

By being focused on focusing bound with either an
on or an upon something, however,
means the meaning of staying focused
exactly that is, though not to forget that
if not instead, metacognitive thinking
is the actual context instead,
changing the actual meaning of
the entire situation again
of the poor forgotten thing we've said
and only if
and that's what a focus
is actually meant for

either lense up or lents down
get your hold over your hands
and your hinchy head again.
Force France Frenzy frown
Fans Fins Thumbs
Forethrown thin tin can
Firecat Cutfella Focus Fez Fossils Fuzzy Fis
Cussings Things Locus Lotus Focal Fatal Local Far-Right Referential Frugal I Find easy to bethieve a faith
Faucault is his name incorrectily misremembered and improperly written by me, or is it?
Let uns feel, steal
nothing like F words anymore
let's concentrate on rehearsive appeal.

It's sounding somelike akin to gobbledygook, Corporate Cantonese Chinese chit-chatter,
Jackie Chan in a checkish kung-fu family film featuring
this fanservice just so it lands
tonguey expressiveness lisp of his it is,
as it is presented to his audience.

And the focus within, - also with an on or upon, of course - to observe
the Great or Single, fair to feit letterwise
Wrong and Right as well, pro or contra
it's numerous consequences
are hidden even deeper within
and nothing, never ever having any
one of these stuffs,
but cognitive resources
well shockshit, too insufficient, just not a single unretarded card landing up at hand
to think through chaos
yet certain cold anxiety noises
easier than reason to listen to
but for colorful light shimmer engorgery
brain is not enough brain?
great
to enjoy
inavailable
the world
in raw unorder
That is not right.

It is wrong.

In the end, what is so significant then
what's the point to poker a *** which
pays you no vendor and
burns more like real **** than hashish
and card metaphors turned to ******
it boils down to the question I beg
analyzing an art
is not really wrong,
I admit, it is hard
and more often than not
impossible.

Elaborations, unneccessary creations
word generations, delusional the most
my meta rule engines
the dull flesh my laziness bears.

When is it whole paragraphs too long
where was awareness gone
what sounds wise
who am I,

and are you
fellow gendered stranger in front of that curious letter user
are you more important than me
you so called
Missesy Lady Madam Bibabuttens who is, from, her, their and your Majesty of Royally?

Abnormally nobel and novel
a genie of next stationing away
from obsession
to forthflowing content!

Really, content, stay to it
avoid going nuts
from overreacting about
the wrong thing
this is your rail.

Just imagine, against the facts
clearly not at hand
Assume:
your curse protects
from, say
Adverse effects
perverted defects
murdering insects

religiously the fallacy acts
the Pope's racial pedigree
bibles brible library liar blessphemy
chapter apes shape the chapel
pslam verses Christian
Territorial hissings
clashings and death wishings
Let me be please preach
Guess that's a way.

So, what is this tiny little tale's lesson here learnt?

Ech, who am I asking there anyway
as if I and my own, wonderful echelon besides me,
entirely made out of all of my positive traits
were out on a hustle for some hustling
or is that me?
Part genie,
art genie
a gentle data editor sprite

or taken off masks
a human being resolving a spite
the cure through hard drive overrides.

What might my friends be thinking now,
without knowing how much I think about them now and simply hope to appeal to them, not to disappoint them, precisely because I trust them as deeply as they trust me too
why must love always hurt so much
and nevertheless, no one is ever to look away from the pain of others
those close to you and about your pain of aware sight, who simply stand around just like you?

Who is taking the reins when
and who is taking amiss when about whom
who decides when is what to be done how and where
who is telling us where we come from and why we do whatever we do?


Is that love. Is this love? This is love? That's love. Friends are the loveliest. They are simply the lovely ones lovely. ***** *** for a second or two, one does **** one another the best way mentally anyway before chilling out on
those ours well-equipoised equivalents
of the cigarette after.
Oh, friendship, wicked substance
but who is the alchemist
and who the philosopher
or the physicist? Or our medical prodigy today? I prefer one role about all the brains, perhaps, white coffee for me.

The Focus and the Ego
who I am, as a sum out of all of you, or you, sum of them and us,

It is defined through the current condition of that approximately relevant situation
since whatever it is directed on or upon
so much a mathematical function alike
and spits out essentials in numbers and clock gear cogs and odds
so that the thankful you, for these volitional line breaks over everywhere, are left gobsmacked
your turn to jaw my drop even downer,

and eventually everything
that you want
that you are, that you eat,
that you're willing to be and to become
is yielded by what you're seeing
and others are seeing about you thatever you've seen
and nothing else but the comparison, this one special process, operation
between letters and thinked thoughts

as final
component to the last trick
for the quiry to insights which still might be left lacking,
and a huge fun it's going to be
to untangzzigle, iron and refubrish
after the after the Lysergical
what pity, has to leave again soon
but still is quite a while around here and there until then

let's enjoy the symmetry of that duck over there!

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

                        Colonial Rule from Low Earth Orbit

                         Telling lies to the young is wrong

                                      -Yevtushenko, “Lies”

Corporations and nations orbit the earth
Colonial rulers as satellites and drones
Enneagramming through our attic beams
Their mad, malevolent multi-wave streams

Ideas not our own – they coil and writhe
As sinister blue lights through days and nights
Device calling silently to device
In unheard hissings of infogoguery

We rattle our electronic chains about
And proclaim our freedom
                                          (as we are told)

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

                   Kleenex Goes in the Top, Right-Hand Drawer

They don’t talk about Kleenex in teacher-prep
But it is an essential for adolescent tears
The hissings of mean girls, heartbreak, mis-matched socks
The deaths of schoolmates

Kleenex goes in the top, right-hand drawer
Immediately to hand when the world goes wrong
Rejections, failing a test, no date for the prom
The deaths of schoolmates

Kleenex goes in the top, right-hand drawer
Sometimes it’s all you have

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

                                           A Discarded Cat

She adopted us several weeks ago
And after the usual hissings and spittings
Was accepted by the other cats
And the yapping dachshunds? Well, not so much

Cinnamon-Cat loves to be petted and fed
She follows me about my daily work
With plants and plots and pots and honeybees
But she doesn’t quite trust me, not yet

But I’ll do my best; you can bet on that
For she is no longer a discarded cat