GRANT FRASER (JUNE 7 1964 / ABERDEEN)
poet asks me, yesterday,
if I still write poetry?
is this poetry...if it is,
I don't know...
cause I started doing photos,
anything that is a record - I suppose...
I used to love cassettes,
recording my voice,
saying things out loud,
or wanted to keep some part
of me, that once existed,
I imagine that words once
served me better, than now,
you are too bitter, said the coach,
inside out, even back to front,
like meaning got twisted around me,
a suit of word thorns,
try and live out, what it is you wanted
I get it!
I see what it is to become things,
black as coal, shinier than a precious gem,
gagged in the frozen drama of everyday time,
I live ahead of every action,
carry out what it is I need to do,
and avoid others, postpone my own demise...
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Comments about this poem (A New Kind Of Carpet Called 'Poets Eyesore' (ex. Hinterlands) by GRANT FRASER )
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