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Poetry

I lost a dear friend on the weekend.  Sadie.

She choked on a sausage.

She had been on many psychiatric drugs that her reflexes were affected and she was unable to cough properly.  Poor Sadie, she left behind a son of 9.

R.I.P. my Dear.

 

There are so many lost words

I wanted to use to display

my gratitude at your tenacious

grasp upon my friendship.

When I said I loved you I meant it.

You gave me support

it has been so long

I had forgot its meaning.

All I know is that it is a lot

easier to enter this life

than it is to leave and now

I know this, it is too late

to prosper from it.

 

 

COPYRIGHT BRUCE E SAUNDERS 2018

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Death has to be sanitized for the movies

No bulging pants of shit

from sagging sphincters

as they hang from theirs nooses

odourless

 

The Devil smiles as I write this

 

Maths is just theory,

computing is maths which

is quite scary!

The internet is maths

so is God theoretical?

 

You smile but I don’t like it.

 

There is no maths

there is only coincidence.

 

You stare at your instrument of evil

the internet is not for exploring

all theory is coincidence

language is maths.

 

 

You do not understand me

You can’t see my hands

 

 

COPYRIGHT BRUCE E SAUNDERS 2018

 

On Tuesday you told me you loved me.

Out of the blue the words settled upon

my shoulders of solitude and drifted

up my neck, throat and tongue

to my brain where they dawdled

as I became used to the idea that

there was love in my life once more.

Once more there was feeling in a bleak

and desolate landscape, rain to the dry

sand of my human need.

You gave me this and now you lie

in a hospital bed isolated from

the world by bandaged time.

I cannot say you are a type-fast

kind of person cos you don’t know it

but you ask for the earth not some

of the wrecking-balled timings they

have put before the fence of timing-belted

laughter and hope.

 

 

COPYRIGHT BRUCE E SAUNDERS 2018

 

You break the rules –

they change.

You enforce the rules –

you are an obstacle

to change.

 

 

No one can hear

the discontent

behind the doors

of a ward where life

is illegal.

 

 

Governed by Rule of

Microphone, the

loudest voice wins.

He who declares a lead,

loses.

 

 

Head down, you declare

insomnia, for the

practise of those

who use the drug

called Light and no Dark.

 

 

They do it until they

ask for the way

to bear the rights of all

upon their responsible

shoulders without art.

 

 

It is above the use

of the footing and clads

the righteous with

the vowel of being

in the wrong.

 

 

COPYRIGHT BRUCE E SAUNDERS 2018

Guilty, guilty, guilty

is your state of

agreement at the

beginning of the process

that starts at the

charge desk.

If you can’t find

someone guilty

of a crime, Find

them criminally

insane instead

using a police

psychiatrist

instead of

a courtroom appearance.

Put them somewhere

where they won’t

affect the business

of good people

doing peerless

work. Unjudged

they proceed with

the good work

of being inside

the working-timed

love of laughter

called Judgement Act.

With faceless authority

they judge us

behind the closed doors

of a hospital ward

where unbounded

by language

we scream for more

time to think

about the writing on the

walls of the booking establishment

where we buy our tickets

to flight, away from

the tears of plentiful

mordant soft

underfelt.

 

COPYRIGHT BRUCE E SAUNDERS 2018

 

On a road to a destruction

of all things eager to find

the one thing, I have been

on the long-time passenger’d

life of footfall and slumber.

No lover has been here

to see the ending of

my life here on earth,

nor does it seem

they will know it.

My personal viewing of

church-like proceedings

from within do not

allow me to try to end

it all now.

But my torn psyche

carries raised weals

from the cat

you use with

gay abandon.

You read this and laugh,

eat the paper

Nil by mouth means

deep silence

like a quiet orgasm

Ha!

 

 

COPYRIGHT BRUCE E SAUNDERS 2018

Why you still playing hate crimes

after all these years?

Where is the forgiveness

you offer the beggar in the street?

All the loneliness and tears…

for what? A policy posture.

Life without love is

too easy

No one to take up my time

I’m shattered and maybe

missing a piece

I need someone to invent

my real name.

 

 

COPYRIGHT BRUCE E SAUNDERS 2018