Hinterlands (Fragmentary) Poem by GRANT FRASER

I


Vertigo's of self meaning
at the very back of where
you currently are,

As faces encroach...

I don't know the words,
I don't know...

Much less the hell what
things really mean,

Something should come
out to save us

Have you not upturned
all the stones,
or sought out the very
crux of thought?

Stricken on so many pages,
great heightened lines...

Where big intellectual ones,
stick like lumps of sick
in the plug hole of your
hungry imagination,

Hold on to much more,
should it insist,

Then you'll comprehend,
that nothing can be found,

On this bit life raft,

Where all meaning gets tough,
and rougher still...


II


On time, as ever,

Made, it was readier,
as I could be,

So why does everything
go wrong in spite of that?

Forgetting that I'm here,

The hairline crack keeps
getting longer,
stretches it's evident web,
further and further,

Then I blame the Gods
for not caring or looking down,

The world is just a spectacular
board game, without external players,

And the Earth is everyone's stage,

But the act, i Just can't get over it...

For the eyes half limpid,
stretching back into mine,

I've scratched the words
out many times,
bled invisible notes
out of individuation,

Until the word pain,
squeezes you dry!

C'mon drive me to the fecund edge,
titillate me with all your sacred
symbols...
draw the sperm out, onto my hands,

While the green crocodile,
sleek inside it's blood,
gags beautifully,
over it's old stick...


III


These are the kind of things,
I often like to think about,

I mean let's just say 'half truths',

If Your getting half, then you must be
getting something?

I've been trying to get to that unnameable
thing all my life,

Yet how can beauty & ugliness
co-exist,
Or why do I have problems with it?

When I can't find reason,
or get to the very bottom on time,

Then one can at least invent something
to perplex oneself with,

Especially if conformity, were some
kind of mad inherent illness,

Or to live roughly with comfort,
and just not feel anything...

Life as a kind of, bright shiny spoke,
or a spinning treasure wheel,

While the crystal dirt of guilt,
enters the blood,

And just for a second more,
watch the faulty kingdom at work