GRANT FRASER (JUNE 7 1964 / ABERDEEN)
Does one make repulsive
meaning of life,
if one has none?
to sacrifice your addiction
for the absurd,
Oh! Melancholy pus!
Unfortunate for us,
we may be all guilty
of the same thing...
and the smashed up sorts
that I meet,
crucified by the sacred
money, sex, drugs,
all pervading popularity,
besides a smile isn't for keeps!
and I take out mine,
then look again, and again,
a true real fake one - that,
that smile out of disperate machinery,
I have a credit card and it is partly blue or greener
than the dead grass of my soul,
I used to have blue blue skies in my eyes,
until something took that away...
but you know, I tell myself, still,
a hundred times a day,
that change is all that can truly happen,
and that maybe the individual has to die,
the pretend veneer should never fear,
what's the use?
like grasping something dormant in your brain,
to prevail in the cool green dank tissue,
an explosion or something else,
a new leaf on the plant of my fears,
Petallic - whatever...
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