Cubes Poem by GRANT FRASER

The ships outside my window
wait, and all the weight is where
I am, behind white slats,
thinking of other ways to break
free of this heavy heavy
black starry brain,
unable to float into better places,
or little chance of change....

the flesh is there in the bath,
real, dark pubic hair, veins and blemishes,
everything feint and pale, and stretch my
toes out further to break the all
consumming idea of floating alone
into a vortex of my own...

why my body reminds me, even in this
state of growing old, yet the muscles
are beautifully toned even though I
am greying and getting cold, scary!

one minute I was young and daring,
the next, older and defiant, and as
stupid as they come...

you see I built a vessel of words
to float on, and many have sank
along the way, others I insist
keep me thinking and talking,
(to myself that creative whim) ,

sonambulists sit at desks everywhere
I go, get on with the tasks of Earth,
I know - nothing is more real to me,
than the dream when it is dreaming,
we're all in it for something?

I for the success of each sensation,
that they, if anything... are what life
is or should be more about,
you see the ice bergs are melting,
without a sound all around me,
and the cubes crash around in
my Whiskey glass like voices...