The tribes trapped by a paradigm pair
A parasitic co-dependent braid
Ever dance the hate minuet so fair
And the dank hollowed halls drink the noise made

Cast as evil those who would break the spell
Powers fell curse upon you whom it rules
In patience we await the dead hand tell
They bank on that ancient snare, kindly cruel

To one day break that bank is our intent
To see freedom ever free is our goal
Too much control is our most fond lament
With bread and butter you would steal our soul

The mob owns the mules & they their riders
A ball peen hammer, still the anvil rings
For each Goliath there comes a slider
Tho’ framing hammers bang the 16’s sing

Since only you matter, then here’s the deal:
If it’s all relative, nothing is real

… including you.

Floyd Alsbach

Lawrence Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com

                    Assembling a Metal Lawn Chair with Great Care
                                   (and a Ball-Peen Hammer)

A friend gave me a lawn chair in tangerine
Bright tangerine, with instructions in English
Which I followed most assiduously
Which parts of the chair most surely did not

The instructions did not mention a ball-Peen hammer
With brutality and words which must not be spoken
(Think of Vulcan and his mighty strokes)
I finally assembled the chair to my satisfaction

And then I sat down

Tools of the Patriarchy

Fence pliers, claw hammers, crescent wrenches
Nail sets, c-clamps, wood planes, mitre boxes
Come-alongs, White Mule gloves, ball-peen hammers
Jumper cables, wood planes, mill bstrd files

Plumb bobs, twist bits, cross-cut saws, ripping saws
Tire irons, air compressors, pressure gauges
Brace-and-bits, drawing knives, pneumatic jacks
Cold chisels, clamps, mortar trowels, channel locks

A twelve-hour day plus d*mned low pay, you bet!

And

A work ethic, knowledge, muscles, and sweat

courage guides on knowledge not enough
known, not enough known,
but known enough,
to know

a guess is not a lie, unless you know,
empirically,
by way of out-perience,
trying out and failing in a miserable state
to wait as a wisher a while more,
"existing in a state of want, suffering, wretchedness, etc."

Bet me, cries my friend the gambler,
you may win, she cries,
you never know. Dare wait,
wait to be old
to know

the past will be found to have been right,
for what it was in history,
a discrimination, between Eutopian existence known
scientifical-ish as
knowable knowns unfalsifiable as
experience paid proper attention
to sense the edge
next time so we may
know failing to know the unknown
end of the whole matter,
thus we
make a science, form a knowing, leave a known,
a core known, fitted into
the discriminated class of knowns to
you, to take away into your place where
"two rocks nearly join", to hoard with all
previous knowns awaiting use in some reader some day.

Liberty taken,
"It's a smug poem, y'see."
I see it posted here.
Positioned to be seen if sought long enough,
all over hoary on the top,
the poet was old when I met him,
I have lines left linked to a younger him,
but the lines tie me to the old man
who spoke of critters and rocks
witnessed by a knower and sayer of enough.

I find good imaginable.
I find no reason good could ever form a war.
No reason has come to mind in some time,
I have forgotten when I knew
no reason ever could. War was never a good idea,
but
an idea and any may be can be fitted to nature
imagined by knowing witnesses imagining,

if prey thought as men think, I think,
this folly…
for it is me, thinking
as prey thinks,
and I know I am hunter, taker of life to maintain
my right unalienable.
I am of the class risen from the masses, I read.
I see things have been in part
known
all along. Joy of the fullest sort any morning contains,
is easier to find when sought early in a given day.
-- round it out, he said he learned, as a purveyor of news.
Tap, tap tap, I recall learning
Rivets are rounded with a ball peen hammer,
you know.
Pounded round the edge of the head,
rivets are rounded with a ball peen hammer,
and finisher work in a furniture mill,
where the upholstery was done with mastery staff,
journey men, wombed or un,
put art into their effortless
ability to peen a pretty as pi brass tack with
proper formed blemishes,
tucking folds in fabric formed formed formed…
of thread crossing thread in a pattern pre arranged
-listen, amused, feeling the walls of the maze
were never made of more than thought-knowns,
thoughts known as thought once by another
pouring lines in reasonable
networks fit to strain gnats from gnostic guessings now
twisted strands combed from silk
eggs
con structed
as instructed long long long time gone right,
threads through now from how how how and why
when
nothing was known, as was I, ignorant of now, so then
they all have been, as children of men,
touring the caverns where wisdom hides
lies so evil only adults are allowed to even imagine them,

so, rest a while, child. Mortality is a moment that proves
relativitiy is an iffy situation to imagine right
the first time.

"a smug poem"

Inspired by the reality of TV
being as eternal as electricity.
I listen
to Robert Frost,
knowing my voice dares not imagine
knowing how he remembered
old poems, by then, 1952,
flowing from under his hoary mane,

lines he lingered on 20 minutes,
40 years earlier or more,
I don't know, how long it had been, but it was
old poetry by then, 1952

Dear Sarla
people look at me
and all they see is you
I hate that
and it makes me hate myself
you make me want to die
and hell if my pain tolerance
were higher I swear that I
would cut them off myself
because all they see is my
outsides and my double D *******
and even if I carved the word
boy in all caps
into the soft plush of my ******
a little lump that is always too small
to be seen as an ***** *****
they would still only see the
******* shoved away in the back
of my dresser drawer
cuddled up next to my sports bras
that does nothing to hide my *******
and I have been living inside you
for ten long years
my ***** are ready to drop
I even started shaving the little
peach fuzz stache your father shamed
you into bleaching
I let my leg hair grow out
and willed the chest hair to grow
around my navel and then into
the fleshy V
that my hips create
all of my body hair grows freely now
to keep me warm
but mainly to spite you
and ****** what they see
when they look at me
eyes coming up from my crotch
to my chest
is the shadow of a girl
they see a beautiful blossoming
young woman
and yeah okay
I can see that too
you would have been beautiful
but I cut and snuffed out
your life in the middle of the
prime of your youth
I killed you
and have been in the hospital
three times because of this
because of you
and when my first hospital doctor
told me that my coming out was
just a diversion tactic
it felt like the week old cuts
on my wrist
opened up and all of you that
was left inside of me
bled out at his fancy shoed feet
you were pepto-bismol pink
and my empty husk filled up
with the blues of a thousand
unshed tears
I was a raging ocean of boy
my waves crashed onto your body
until you were drowned in it
and then you were gone
but when people look at me
all they see is you
and my blood is blue on the inside
but when they cut me open
they didn’t see the blues
they saw my ******
and my tubes
and the folds of my womanhood
hell yeah though
they still saw my fat
fat thighs
fat stomach
fat arms
fat fat fat
they still see my scars
and my crooked glasses
and my *******
people still ask if I have
a ****
as if my genitals are any of
their ******* business
and probably if I did
get surgery
my cosmetic scars would still
label me as a freak
I still wouldn’t be enough of a
man for them
my ***** would never be big enough
no man or woman would ever be
able to love me with the lights on
because hell
I’m still not able to pleasure myself
your body is a landscape
albeit a barren one
filled with mines
and I am too clumsy to
traverse it
your ******* only become ***** from
the cold and the only wetness in
your boxers is blood
and I am afraid to look at you
in the mirror
because even I can’t will something
to grow that wasn’t programmed
from the start
and even the friends that never
even knew you
they hold you over me
I’m not a boy because I haven’t
had The Surgery yet
what bathroom do I use
I don’t count as a boy because
of my huge ****
I can’t be a boy because
I like pink shorts
and the only things that have
change are my name
and my hair
I am a *****
a girly boy
but ****
I’m enough of a man for myself
I will never be a mother
and I will only let them ****
me like a man
the swaying of my *******
as I bend over a constant
reminder that I am wrong
but the only boyfriend
I’ve had since sixth grade
only asked me out because
he had a crush on you
I have to tell people that I am
a boy and remind them of the pronouns
that I use
over and over again
but technically I’m still a girl
well technically *******
honestly though Sarla
I wish people would be able to
see through to me
because when my light does
distinguish I don’t want to
be buried in a dress
don’t want my mother to cry
over her little girl
I think my sister would cry
for me though
she calls me her older brother
and once called my ****** a peen
she has come around
with flying colors
and she really gets it
I know that when it seems
like the world is against me
I will always have her
she sees through you
to me Priestly underneath
and Sarla
as long as I have her
I know I’ll be okay
it makes the wait for people
to come around a lot easier
I love my sister so
and someday you really will be gone
***** and period and all
I’m going to have a proper burial
for you when I get home
but until then
I’ll take good care of your body
and I know you’ll be watching over us
Love Priestly

To the herdsman counting his flock in the moonlight
The plowman repairing his tractor by lantern- light
The wood splitter , the fence builder , framer and rail tender
Architects of frozen December morns
Unsung engineers , freight worker and brakemen
'Twould be a privilege indeed to sup cold beer with the countries heroes , privy to stories of hardship and raw weather days endured by these American patriots
Iron tooled with steel , the churning grist mill , diesel engine roar ,
black earth turned anew , billowing steam settled over valley floors
Masters of metal , brake and die , machine and anvil
The crack of the peen long before sunrise
'Tis the bailiwick of farmer and tradesman* ..

journey through the terror
of this new era
mind blown subjugated to *******
every time i spit
a verse critics come to curse
soon to see the hearse
when my guns burst
open yo soul and let it flow
as i get a lift off my indo
no pretender
make enemies surrender
war strategist at heart
never fall part sticknthe game like darts
**** peace war is a necessity
who can get next to me
if im surrounded by real killaz?
mobbin' guerillas
drug dealers to cap. peelaz?
watch yo head now
step to the yosef
prepare to bow
down to the southern sound
fools all around
wanna see me drown
but my heads above the waters
rise through all the pain
and madness circlin my brain
how cani explain?
the worlds luxury and treachery
wrapped up all in one
got **** this aint the life i promised
federals funerals to criminals
is all i see all eyes on me
take a take trip throughy mind
ya realilty
but still i role out hard
ballad of a dead soulja


the more madness that scatters my brain
the more i make pain
scream at my foes with forty four
by the time i step through the door
down the corridors they'll be gore
yall can have the battles
but i win the war soar
pass *******
**** what these hypocrites
say about me they can quote me
in magazine but i gotta magazine
next to my ar fifteen
aimmin between ya shoulders til ya guillotine then transform on the scene
puff my green and let it meditate my peen
my team all get creams
headed for the ceiling never chillin'
i be the political villian
got them devils filming
me and gotta watch my moves
butnit dont matter
im coming for you fake Jews
i know you own everythang
but **** yo gangs
its the return of the black kang
assign me my throne
bow down *******
cuz the legacy is home
crawlin on fours
cuz i told ya
dry ya tears
death is here
cuz this ballad of a dead soulja

My tissues typed,
wired and sound
tested

waiting,
a waste for the longing I taste
in my eyes, on my tongue, on
the tips of my fingers,
time
lingers in doorways
on dull rainy days
waiting.

It's kiss and tell and
the road leading to hell
has peen paved with inventions
conceived in dark dungeons,

I'm on the back foot
burning the lights out,

if there's hope then I
hope that it finds me.

Me *** shraab peen lage gea ha
Te kal me thodi ji smack bi try kiti c
Hukka ta normal ji gal
** *** ***

Sala kinna badal gea me.
Par sach kaha
Eh sab nasha karke
Teri yaad bilkul nai aandi

The noise was incessant, a jungle in a suburban street.  Their uninhibited laughter and carefree glide as they strutted down the pedestrianised street. All jumping in turn over the bollards at the end of the street; shrieking at each other. They didn't give two *****, cocky little *******. They were all hair, charity shop jumpers, and self centered to boot. One of them parked his sporty ****** car in the back-lane, like he was trying to colonise the space between his house and theirs. This prevented his easy access; he couldn't get out effortlessly on his bike any longer (several thousand pounds, carbon fiber, a serious model) or unload his shopping. In a semi-lagered up state; post-Friday night drinks up the town he had gotten himself into a revengeful state. He wanted to show the little ******* that he was not to be messed with. Thinking he was just some bald middle aged fella in a parka, he'd show them.

He let his resentment get the better of them, keying ''****'' into the car. **** them, a keying well deserved, don't want keying then turn Black Sabbath down. He had felt briefly guilty the next day; eggs on toast and coffee wondering if he should have done something so drastic. He was ultimately mild-mannered and avoided conflict where possible. His guilt diminished when the music started up again; he hadn't had a moment's peace since they moved in. He felt like they were insects on a hot day; constantly invading his personal space and making him feel uncomfortable. They woke him up constantly; he hadn't had a decent night's sleep in weeks. His skin was getting paler, his eyes bloodshot. They should try looking at excel spreadsheets for hours on end, punching in formulas on 3 hours sleep. None of them had worked an honest day's work in their lives, little *******. He hated their flat caps, berets and other arty accessories. Sometimes he thought about lining them up like dominoes in height order and pushing them off the Tyne Bridge. Or feeding them to the dogs at Brough Park- **** little *******. Sliding up the street- carefree and laughing at nothing in particular. Laden down with cheap cider and frozen pizzas. His friendly notes had been ignored, if diplomacy fails then it is time for military action. Politeness was no use anymore. They obviously couldn't care less about keeping him up; night after night, making him miserable. He put on his black Adidas tracksuit and his Berghaus jacket zipped up to his face with the hood up. He put a ball-peen hammer down the back of his jogging pants, he smeared joop on his bald-head, on his ears and on his neck. He walked next door ''Once in a lifetime'' playing in his head, jumped over the little garden wall and banged on the door. As he banged on the door, he heard the clanging of a snare drum bursting out of the window. He didn't have time to react as the stonework from the window ledge above fell on his head. He never did get a chance to make his grievances clear.

A Nail, a small rod
a rod that sets the difference
between structure and collapse

One tip sharp to dig and impact
Dangerous alone without a guide
Ready to split and open a hard exterior
and grip into an ever impenetrable interior
To force an idea, a point

The other end flat for taking on a force needed to dig
Flat enough to focus the effort to force open and split
To forcibly separate and and guide dangers
To be the force behind the idea, the point

Using one's own hand to drive in
Damages the hand more than the exterior
Only brushing and leaving no mark

A hammer whether ball-peen, claw or mallet to drive in
May drive in the nail if hit just right
But miss and risk damaging the exterior
Only denting and bruising it

If you cannot seem to drive the nail
whether missing the flat end
or the material to impenetrable
you might be the need
of a sledgehammer

I think that I've addressed that I'm obsessed in forty-three other heartfelt messes. Poetry falling apart at its best is completely normal when I'm loading my cart with formal vests to find confidence in the turmoil. Tinfoil type superstition is envisioned when smoking burnt coil above ripe ****** cakes, that's what it takes when push comes to shove, **** this kush, **** this fake love. Spilling out of every teens pores, killing off through peen spores in teen ******, essence lost from the core with no reward, guessing cost is fourscore then you're out the door. ****, it's a chore living out the lore of a giver and a saint freezing in a river with fresh paint running down the face. River of life and black paint that blinds, giver of strife, it's whack, no matter what the time. Whether you're drunk out of your mind or ******* high, the paint is soon to dry over your eyes and you'll be living blind. Stick your face in the water, it's so ******* simple. Sure, it might be cold on your cracked skin wrinkles. The solution is always right in front of your face. You just got to look for it before it's too late.

She’s the butter, I’m the toast,
She’s hot, she melts, she gets real close,
She sits on my lap and I grab her ****,
I squeeze and pull closer, my little ****,
She’s feeling my **** through my pants,
Not the ideal circumstance,
But we’re in public so it’s better this way,
Later in privacy, I’ll make her day,
She pulls closer till’ there’s no length between,
Her soft soaking ***** and my rock-hard peen,
Every ******, there’s a moan, every moan, there’s a kiss,
Through skin and through bone, all I feel is bliss,
I feel this way because I’m so close to my baby,
My good good girl, my little lady,
I am all hers and she is all mine,
Whatever the setting, she is looking fine,
Whether 3 AM or 10 at night,
Her **** luminescence won’t stop shining bright,
She’s so **** cute that sometimes it scares me,
I’m afraid that there will be a guy that stops and just glares deep,
Into her cleavage or at her nice round ***,
But she assured me she’s mine, so I know she will pass,
Up any other guy that might want a taste,
Of her savory sopping, perfect ***** paste,
I will feed her and **** her,
And love her and tuck her,
Into bed at night with a goodnight kiss,
As I leave the room, I tell her I miss,
Her already and then she will pout,
So I come back inside and let a load out,
Well, a load, or two, or three, or seven,
Cause I want to make my presence feel like heaven,
Cause when I’m with her, it’s heavenly all right,
A ******, a scratch, a kiss, a bite,
After we both can’t take anymore,
I fall asleep atop my little *****,
We both start to dream as we hold each other close,
Close enough to be one... one buttered toast.

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

                 A Poetry Tool Kit and a Small Sack of Concrete Verbs

The sorting trays hold syllables and rhymes
While heavy-duty meter is stowed below
With a chisel and file for shaping rough lines
And wire cutters for merciless editing

Iambs are tightened with the box-end wrench
The ball-peen hammer is a strong accent
A few loose screws might constitute free verse
If they will bother to sort themselves out

At the end of his shift a worthy artisan
Picks up the excess adjectives and adverbs

And burns them

(sung – in a round ***** willow warble - to the tune of --
Oh Where Oh Where has my little dog gone).

Once pronounced libido of mine
took kamikaze nose dive,
whereby about two thirds of mein kampf ago,
I yearned to be sought after beaux
yet as severely socially
anxious and withdrawn lad
present day ofttimes repeated laments
find me to crow
slamming self NOT losing
my virginity at a precocious ago,
cursing lack of tangible results courtesy

feeble attempts delivered deathblow
to a fragile ego,
and now only
as a married celibate sexagenarian
dearth of rutting thoughts
along the unforgettable lines sketched out
by storied author Eugene O'Neill  
includes lustful and romantic desire,
largely illustrated by the relationship
between Eben and Abbie

hashtagged within tragedy
Desire Under the Elms
ricochets with salient significance
an attempt by O'Neill
to adapt plot elements
and themes of Greek tragedy
to a rural New England setting
inspired by the myth of Phaedra,
Hippolytus, and Theseus,
which story of five characters
on a rural farm

in 1850s' New England,  
how their lives  
both pushed together
and pulled apart
by their conflicting desires
such aboriginal, primal,
optimal, animal, et cetera characteristics
once figuratively bounces
hither and yon, to and fro
within testosterone
powered windmills in my mind.

With a flame boy hunt
deft jais nais sais quois
firm lickey split tongue
and two bell yule yar pissant
little nippy ***** noopy ruck berry
filled up paul ling sacks
viz peppy la pew doth not peter out,
and weathers clawed rained swipes
from hello kitty when faux pas gets swung
assisting climbing Jacob's ladder

(without ***** footing,
orb bing a putz like the president)
advancing quick to attain ******* rung
while heading into a slippery sloping sluice
(with prickly endeavor emitting cleat trill
smooth sailing along a ****
re coarse upon ******* shaped pung
crossing la brea tar pits (peppered
with lai bee ha tricky
bridge over the River Kwai)

comprising ideal place de la resistance
to woo tang clan foreign nee Kate,
where two puckered
rill lee fleshy ruffling rills
tinged pinkish lips overhung
a challenging escarpment,
where many a brave
Tom, Harry or **** get hung
up, particularly while searching
for fabled “G” spot,

Fear of Flying (a bildungsroman
whose central theme couched
in the search
for self-discovery) by Erica Jung
cuz portcullis hamstrung
even the most fiercely determined
Engelbert **** per ****
necessitating the moist risky ski maneuver
as most studs know tubby gelandesprung

though ***** prize
wool worth any slimy setbacks,
where sticky **** gets flung
from angry cat,
who does not in the least find amusing,
and if further pricked with rage
not averse to hurl dung
gar (with) ease at snaky,
retractable hardened foo fighting

beastie boy twill clung
for dear life and limb
(er, or twig and berries),
while applying crampons (bivouacked
within his maxipad), viz ****
gull low, essentially a ball peen size cove
******* and hammered out
by Dashiell Hammitt, where coiled,
kinked follicles strewn tightly inlet among
pheromone laced verboten fruit.