Buds Poem by GRANT FRASER

Buds



It comes out
no matter what,

the battered black
wear,

stares and stares...

somewhere up
into me,

the ragged stitch
already coming away,

and the pungency,

it hangs from the roof
across the walls,

travels flights,

but I open the usual
secret door and slip
in...through the insole
of the mind,

it's about the closest
you can get,
without upsetting the norm,

a gust that sweeps along the intake,

splitting these
dead casual atoms,

into two, then four,
six or eight,

compartments of the sensory
axis,

then some inward moan,
a melted film,

but the god inside
hides casual,

it's not easy to know
what drives man along...

Saturday, May 10, 2014
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