Morning Strikes... Poem by GRANT FRASER

Washing windows
in the windy sun,
proper things,
thinking like an early
big morning star,
all by myself,

my heart ticking in
it's box,
and my brain flickering
in the bluey black,

throwing buckets of cold
water everywhere,
my ego too,
come think of it!

that's what I do,
Cockledoodledoo!

word grain, and follow
the self same steps as ever,
back inside...

I'm so alive, and chide,
to die too, can't see
your death the same...

eternity looks boring,
all the empty snores,
I flipped over,
look at their creepy legs,
I'll pull them off, hairless kinds,
sleep, my part time adversary!

cause it juts out like life
behind glass, and a dangerous
shadow with bad breath & dead flies,
where has the profession of thinking
gone now, I don't see it anywhere around?

C'mon don't hold back on us,
I've read so many books now,
I'm just getting more & more stupid!

and whatsmore I don't ever learn
what it is I'm supposed to be doing...

is it me trying to define
the passageway of nonsense,
filtering in and out, of the everyday,

I don't shave like that, sorry!
surround myself in subliminal meaning,
well poets need their armoury,

ok! maybe just one line or two,
maybe, just to get me through...
I mean just like you....
a word flinger with conventions,

my friends the seagulls might
even tell you,
when there's nothing else to do,
and their desperation is abated...