Meat Poem by GRANT FRASER

The smell of your own ****,
is your envelope of realness,
pity that we are just heads
stuck on torsos,
legs jousting, arms trying
not to give themselves away,

snatching, I don't -

give me it, not me, this time,
not right, I wanted!
have an argument with my urge
to leap, at that second,
justy like anyone,
I'm not like that,
Oh! but I am - just like
everyone - in the god damn world.,

poets don't sleep, or leap,
at chances, like that,
words don't come easy to
selfish swines who take too
many short cuts,

and It rolls up in a carpet
and that's that, can't move!

the pattern trapped inside,

so that we should talk backwards
all the same,

it's just a game, to keep us
amused, until we find out which
way the stairs run or turn,

well, what good is it anyway,
everyday I look at faces,
and most want to show little,

the cursing mystery remains unsolved,

it's good to fly off the edge
of attraction, distract the lashes,
merge with the painted head!

walk off, as If you've just been
somewhere, wartwhile...