Treasure Island

GRANT FRASER

(JUNE 7 1964 / ABERDEEN)

Out Beyond Everything...


Agitation
of a sort,

between flight
seventeen and one,

a harpooned idea
speared at something,

doubting,

between the stench
of alcohol and piss,

black tinged
tin foil,

assortments
of tablet packets,

condoms left
hurriedly leaking
sperm,

discarded underwear,

no that arrow that
rides invisible
through the mind,

that people want
money and no longer
care,
what they do to get
it,

and then drugs to
escape,
from earlier neglect
or horrors,

and poetry...

what do you expect
a picture of a Shetland pony,
a trek around Glencoe?

everything pales in consideration,
as to how one might leap out,
or break free,
given the knowledge...

I batter words like fish
greasy...
you don't want to smell
or taste them,

and yet, there is a promising
standing still, that I feel,
going on, at the crux,

that something urgent might
be tunneling through the wall,
just to remind you,
yes, there are so many
other worlds, too!

and what am I doing, here,
at this
moment,
looking for something bigger,
what can I connect to,

a face, but I am in inner
Space,

and this is the safest place
I know, and can't switch anybody
on to it,

I gloat and I float and I go out
further and further and further,

beyond it all,

until the world and everybody
on it is a nothing...

Submitted: Thursday, May 22, 2014
Edited: Thursday, May 22, 2014

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