Lok Waj Poem by GRANT FRASER

We may not be
the words we paint?

nor will we sit around
golden tables dining
with martyrs,

most likely a sheer
vacuum of nothing,

and Earth spinning
in blue orb night,


II


I have objections,
bigger connections
to the green leaf of time,

everything a mystery,
and our attentiveness
hijacked through
antennas and cine screens,

flesh dances across four
walls,
camera for an eye,
with internet masturbatory
charm,

it was revolution
to begin with,

and now...

a cesspool of human
faces churn, multifarious,
such addictions...


III


You still do not
know the brain,
even when the best
robot professes,

it was told too!

remember that...


4.

looking for the safest
place,
a space where no government
defies it's honoury people,

hard at work,
up at dawn
putting working
clothes onto
their differentiated bodies,

to float back and forth,
in tasks set before you...

conscious that you care
enough at least,

as age eats through your
addled mind,

who am I? (or rather what...)


=


no wonder time vomits...


+

pestilence of a belief,
at least finding one
that's worth the time,

that hollow words
above hollow floors,
along hollow avenues,
with hollow doors,
in a hollowing of mind,
have hollow human stares
within the silver confines
of hollow awareness,

this is a shell,

hollow, awaiting something
better,

man & womankind,
awaiting some great
kind of surrender,

a brand new search, even...


(*)


Strike out,
words frying,
like onions,
oily at corners
like dark eyes,
simmering...

we saw,
and empty
out our
cavernous thinking's...

onto the empty,
great big
plate,
of our ways,

any thing you declare
more like a denial,

a solitary defence
for being here,
alive,
justified,

and the moment
you close your eyes,

it is nothing, and
we are nowhere nearer,

self at it's empty core,
must regulate more,

we are all there,
right now,
this second, lifetime,

anxiously awaiting...