Three To Get Ready... Poem by GRANT FRASER

I.



Is it still happening,

and 'the world',

so many..

lost in a vaccuum,

and I get up
and I get up
and I get up

even down...

and cook things,
provided,

pig fat stewing
in the air,

where I am,
lost in the great
big nothing,

your lying -
to yourself,
you say; cause
there is something,

if only...

today, is it any
different if everything
you visualise,
hangs there - partly naked!

materialism deilight,

I worked all night,
pushing things along,
handling so many places
and names,

in a spotlight, frenzy
of activitities,

places in time,
so many faces,
blurring inside,

so what is it to live,
then?

all the words & meanings,
accuse me somehow
of being sort of 'dead! '.


II.



I must have inherited
the things I do,
the way I think, uneven,

even a raindrop,
hanging there,
as if something
shiny, silver, and bulbous
conceives me,

selfish eye entity
inherits the most supple
of dreams,

and reenters old scenes,

even darkness outside,
wants you to think about
something,

bits, tend to, split off!

are these, really serious goals?
and elitist furniture>..
voices chosen, to define the air waves,

it's taken me such a long long
time to think about 'heroes',

for they may be invisible to me,
and that would be wrong?

for I am fastly, becoming a drone...


III.


your new buildings
produce a good death in me,

hovering beyond
human dust proportion,

entering it all
again,

sun murmuring,

ice melting,

mud sliding,

rocks
ascending
like rugged
olympians,

dripping
red blood oil,

he said:

'and truth sucked
dry...',

they are just a limited
pattern inside the mind,

who clamber
and imitate,

success, fossilised...

the imaginary as you
can already see - is nowhere...