GRANT FRASER

(JUNE 7 1964 / ABERDEEN)

Hardest part


Suspended disbelief,
the carpet, blinds,
ratio of things that surround,

Self image a surface inhabitant,

Former lightening bolts
of introspection deaD,

There is too much inside,
for outside to count,

God the joke,
but never the last laugh,

The crumbs of mankind
can't realign,

We are that....

Irrelevent, haphazard,
shapeless shifts of nought,

The pulse! The Pulse?

So selective, secreting,
along our beds that

And the ossified word
in our mouths require blood,

If only you would severe
an artery, or piss some,

Colour up these discrepancies,

Your cellular death,
antenna-ised!

a coverage of disinterestedness,

As we only look up
when others have already died,

And the distance towards our soul
grows further and further...

With bitter deeds to acknowledge,

And if that we can't grow anymore,

Then what's the point?

Submitted: Monday, August 26, 2013
Edited: Tuesday, August 27, 2013
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