It ain’t the rhythm
It ain’t the hard-hat nor the swing
It’s the place your foot upon the kettle
And hold your home
To you, for it is the Time
For it to style no’ ping
And that means it’s time for Los Alamos
Again.
Bye!
Can you tell the difference between real and unreal?
If not then I am writing to you
about psychosis and the difference between being the One
who isn’t and the one who is.
I must go to the Church today and see the one
who is in control of the baptisms of Bath
who asks not who is here
but asks when shall we notice that she
is?
Who is going to tell you about
the birthrates of the City of Bath
and who is unioning and who isn’t going
to shul as they are preparing for incest
against the woman they know as Mum?
All it takes is cognition.
No speaking in tongues is allowed here on
the page.
No spoken language can tell the tune again
of the world’s end and how I held
it in my hands for you to say
So?
COPYRIGHT BRUCE E SAUNDERS 2021
He shoves it to the left
and wriggles it back to the right.
The ball dances on a flipper
then sinks outtasight.
Judge Dredd, Ace of Clubs
multiball and more!
She tries to regain level
maybe make the highest score!
A target sinks under accurate fire!
Another goes and extra ball is lit!
She’s sweating now, reefer and beer…
A crowd has assembled
crushing close, pushing near.
She lets the ball bounce on a rubber,
subtle fingerplay shows off
her skill with the machine
she’s pissing him off!
TWACK! Goes the machine,
again for Specials lit
the metal ball is glowing
the flashing lights are getting hit!
Bump-bump go her hips
as she puts her body in
Two free games, no more!
The targets are all a-spin!
Finally she can do no more
her control has worn thin…
Over to you she shouts
do better! With a grin.
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I lay so long on the open lawn
I gathered dew in my fist
Peppered by music in my ears
A solemn vow to be kissed.
The trees above they shed their leaves
falling about my mouth
The birds were crying against the clouds
long on their journey South.
The few begin the hard won Road
snatched from undergrowth,
the use of machetes tore at green
in silence they cut with stealth.
No machine out here
Upon the verge, of latent falling wings
the chainmail mist hung with the urge
to sample a knight’s last fling.
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There was a time
when all things were made
in Eden.
Everything we owned
was priceless
and involved long hours
of arduour and wealth
procurement. Nothing became
of those things, they rotted
and fell apart but
were never thrown away
as in todays world
where the dump
can easily be mistaken
as a haven for the
insanely collective.
it took many ideas to foment
a pile of rotting soil.
Too many ideas is against
the Lord, I say.
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When he felt down with his hand
the warm cooling fragrance
of pee
intermingled with the time
honoured singing of grass
in the meadow.
The dog had done it again
humped his leg and
come in a frenzy.
Twice in one day
was not in order,
it was part of the land
and no one could see
the patch anyway.
COPYRIGHT ©️
It couldn’t take long
to even the keel
and separate the man from
the bird.
Mostly it took
nor even nor book
to licence the thrill
from its rook
-ery of chance.
Never before had the man
opened doors of the heart
and it’s whimsical place
on the hearth. But
no one ensured that the
right comes once more
as the wily men
of the Nansook poured
forth with their
anger for the tumult
and furs.
In the end it was just
to fight with mere listening
at the trials of the
men and machine.
But ever so long
it reported in song
that the hills were
now vacant of longing
for the arrow to shoot
the man with the loot
and it came about
that all were involute.
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Try to turn and take a
part in the whirring of sound
as it strikes the ground
and know it doesn’t really matter
whose Eiffel Tower you strike.
For the man who loves to drive
it’s a manner of sakes to beyond
the palour to be able to make
the red and the green meet
again at the outset
of him in his ways
about town last evening.
In the frogmarching time
when no one knows who is about
the realising of thread there is
one who decided not to tread
but to run all the way
home like Piggy.
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It will take a long time
to open the door to the right time and property.
It took no one to measure the length
of the broad strap
that closes upon the word of the song
and dance man, who knows little
beyond the white and red
and the author of those who know
it well, beyond the hoarse and call of
the near and the loose to you.
In the end it is not about
the right of all to see them in the world
but only the word of man in kind
who knows only he is fair and not
supposed to know when there
is time alone on the scale
of one to ten.
The time is here and no one knows who is
supposed and who is not
against the power of right
and wrong.
Use of it does not purport
to make the rye seem like the host
to your luck, but all becomes sin
in the light of dawn
when the ruck comes through
the right and stops it fully
being understood for many do
ot know it but many do
and so it is they ask
why are they hunted
here in the west of the land
called Nod?
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I wrote to you today
to ask about the word you use
for the way in which you take away
the mouth from my either and or.
You do not take long to make believe
that you are rarely in the mood
for love and making my
wishes come true.
The way you kiss has stopped
me daily from asking truly
who do you believe
and I know it’s true
There is no evil in this
world except to know
you are not coming soon
to meet the one who
Loves you like no other.
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TOO LONELY TO MAKE SENSE - AGELESS POETRY - DADA 