Dirty Polythene Sky Poem by GRANT FRASER

Oh! yeah I like
the torn
polythene bag,
fluttering like
a communal flag,

in the dirty blue
polythene sky,

and I walk the streets
without gravity,
turning down a succession
of charites for causes
that will kill
me later on,

yes, and if all the money
in the world
can't save us or research
has no assets,

then let's go down the
hard way,

and what would it be, really,
if none of us could die,
and I am sad and I am glad,
that the idea scares me most,

pain i suppose!

and it's there in front of me,
where nothing ever grows,

but the populous and cars,
or shopping bags of Trademark,

with vivacious or perplexed faces
staring out of smoked glass
or partly lit doors...

and the voyage is Mars,
Oh yes! still Mars...

or at least that's where I go...
when I try to add it up,

and I don't really, but who ever
does - totally concern one's self...

so let the barbed wire teach
you a lesson,
and you be polythene and dirty too,
ready to snap and leave
this world behind...


PS. I love Helen, there you go...