73 Poem by GRANT FRASER

It doesn't seem like
a big mystery at all,

that in 73 I had all
the big posters on
my bed room wall,

of a star, who had
recently died,
and had a thumb nail
snap in sepia,
of his taut dead
face, blue in a coffin,

that was as close I could
get, to it, death...

his body more flexible,
muscled, but not herculean,

and the sweat, cuts, oozed
out good technicolour blood,

he looked like something,
out, from further than beyond...

and I couldn't get enough
physical or mental transition,

so I flexed, mimicked,
tried to hold the frozen poses,

then something happened at school...

and my dad stormed in, raging,
tore everything down and away,

all that was left, was cinematic
torn corners and brass tacks,

I didn't collect anything of him
again, after that, hadn't even
seen any of the films...

but just recently, I went to Seattle,
and visited the cemetary where he rests,

and you know, I'm not a fan now at all,
but thought it was something I ought to do,

so here I am, with partner,
standing at the legendary grave,

so meek, his headstone, hardly big at all,
as my younger mind had constructed,

everything for me
began after the dream was torn,
the sequences, unsureness,
and the whole road I've travelled
so far, between space,

Bruce Lee was part of me, back then,
an urge to break out of the norm,

I guess I should really put him up top,
as a sort of forerunner, who started up
the engine of my inner thoughts...

a beautiful body, torn, ready,
willing and even more ready for what's in store,

a statue of pure human excerbation,
self fulfilled, admirably constructed...