Light House 1 Poem by GRANT FRASER

Sticking up out
out of ground
in a most prophetic
way,

splitzoid race
of mind,
armoured domicile,
in clouds hunched
grimy veils,

blue returns,
blanking out time's
eternal coffins,
with the living future
dead,
disparaging,

or trace outlines
off dead shadows
touching walls.

hunger for you
has entered
like a long sharp
glacial nothingness,

it jabs the raw
nerve of man's
inadaquacies,
a sperm + of breathe,

where white hairs
now unfurl
thru old rage,

along some veiny accentuation,
a sort of mammalian rust,
globules burst!
that pattern out,

self replicating
always,
a hungry clinging...

kill that,
hangs on me,
to blame by birthright alone,

of DNA incomplete,
codes worn out like
old used magazines,

a torpedo that
hit the mud, rock,
time with little subtlety,

thinking, clinging, thing,
all to it's self...