Hepsonstall Cemetery Poem by GRANT FRASER

Red
tulips gulped
down
through two blue
eye balls!

(as if caught under
bath water)

in a dead noise
of time,

with a name
imbibed,
very tartly!

a skeleton face
stony black robe,

rope burns!

a grainy mind photo

nylon tombs
exiting in ruins,
images perspiring
and expiring,

we have to burrow
furthest, to find...

deeper than coffins
oily soil,
interacting weeds,

or far beyond the drip
of a tap,
oh! well that's that,

death clocks! ,

but does it matter
if images brew,
had darker edges
for you,
a propensity
for sharp lozenges,

we start, by sucking....

I mean I tried your
pills,
sniffed gas,
until magnification,
hit your magic
costume,
words of magnesium

reality streaked,

of course you sealed
everything up
around you,

I mean you DIED!

and left the cooker
on,
ignition free,
in 1963!

but I hear it in
some sort of way,

life's emotional
carbon monoxide,

breathing past..