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(JUNE 7 1964 / ABERDEEN)

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Ah! Uselessness...

Ah! uselessness,
the only food I truly
know,

and the enclave,
of people who
live within,

or the language
through which I
try to grow,

into...

what - but time,
and never enough...

or to occupy, the clambering
madness of new blood,

only just aware of some other
horizon,

while everything else seems
to confirm your fears,

the speed of technology,
or enhancements in puppetry,

it's the:

'I must have syndrome',

the components I heard
are not green or orange,
but bloody red,

and the stuff so precious
to live,
comes at a human price,

for the owners and share holders,
are not real, or true communicators,

Ah! uselessness,

look under it,
feel what you feel,

this is the only
beginning I've reached,

it stands to reason, there
is nothing outside our grasp,
that needs replaced,

just this one up thing,
all the time,
which doesn't get me,

I mean it's just
furniture,

places to fill your dead
goals...

Submitted: Tuesday, November 26, 2013
Edited: Tuesday, November 26, 2013


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Comments about this poem (A New Kind Of Carpet Called 'Poets Eyesore' (ex. Hinterlands) by GRANT FRASER )

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  • Paul Brookes (11/26/2013 7:21:00 AM)

    And to fill your dead souls Great poem 10/10 BB : O/ BB

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