If it ain’t gritty and it ain’t real

Then it ain’t got that taste that

Has me parched for more

Who are we but the facsimile of the crowd

The wanton voice of the family

Watching our sons and daughters

Befoul themselves and each other

With the fame-like existence

Of stealing thunder and light-ning

From the God and Saul

Of our ambrosia.

Here, drink.

Have some I say

For it is a pure and unwasted formula for

The crank and the shaft

Of the machine in you.

Mother’s milk for

Worn engines.

Copyright B E Saunders 2016


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: