Communications Poem by GRANT FRASER

Communications



You can't expect to
talk to the Sun,
not with this tongue,
pliant on a wave of saliva,

You arrived where,
bare back on dreaming,
meaning?

I plant these things
in my mouth place,
as you just can't
expect these things
to grow...

Scratches the pretence,
Quite roughly,
Sick of inertia,

You got shiny eyes
ye know that,
But what to see out of?

Whole tribes of copies,
like a cell phone prison,
Trying to get out....

Just a little tilt,
and whole thing
might slide,
Surpass this fake thing!

Wednesday, March 1, 2017
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