Treasure Island

GRANT FRASER

(JUNE 7 1964 / ABERDEEN)

****vilisation


****vilisation

For
Helen Woodhead,



Somewhere
among
clothes
strewn,
objects
set down
without
place,
a face in
the dark,
a body
tied up
in a sour
bed sheet
with myriad
irritations
floating past
and friendly
objections,
as if you'd
fallen out
of the race,
and yet
couldn't quite
describe
or measure,
but tried to,
anyway...
as thoughts lock
or fasten,
but you
catch a
glimpse,
outline
what's there,
anyway...
and then
score off
both eyes
anyway
scatter
everywhere,
cause
the brand
new world
is coming,
your way...
Not any
time soon,
yet the beauty
of struggle
catches my
eye,
but
Shitvilisation,
or the artifice
of price...
and all
of you who
bought
or still buy
into it,
without perturbment,
amazes
my sensibility,
as if our souls
lack
something,
vital?
the latest
model
streamlime
black
& ultra smooth,
slips
so effectively
through,
until every
little
door is jammed
tight,
front to back
for miles,
and yet I don't
know what it
is about side
streets,
but here comes the
dark Knight
of road kill...
unsettling,
I need to smoke
fresh air for
longer...
everything
is chasing
you now,
cars...
everyone
rather,
the government,
Royalty,
politicians,
microsoft man,
Scotland is chasing
you, England...
the NHS,
your next eye
examination,
the worn out
looking guy,
sqautting
on cardboard,
same girl
with yellow
bucket,
looking
annoyed
now!
Shitvilisation!
I was right
in front
of you,
until I
disappeared,
into
a cloud,
maybe?
top marks
something so simple
shouldn't weigh
you down...
guilt
is a
ball
&
chain,
even once
you've
thought that,
what if backwards
is the right way...
stomach cramps
worry,
nervous tics,
sweaty obedience
the universe
is like everybody's
picture
but doesn't
ever hang,
terror and fear
produce ideas
or infinite
prison,
Shitvilisation,
built
out of centuries
of distrust,
violence,
the civil bit
has eroded somewhat,
don't you think?
I for one stand
where I am,
like everyone
a sort
of self acquittal,
and yet you know,
you could
throw your heart
spleen, bank card,
socks, love...
entirely -
out the window
and nobody
would even know...
and nobody would
go,
and no
frozen
figure after
the decay,
and whatever's
left to trickle
into pockets
or traces of
where we were,
solidified,
a layer
beneath
the sky,
all petrified
and salty,
but the clouds
will speak again,
something will,
rain will
have it's hour,
the wind
a ballistic
whip,
will spread
the ash
together,
every grain
or mineral
will reform,
and the
Earth will
spin around
and round,
until something
new is found,
and everything
will start again,

Prologue:

Only our ashes
in the midst,
sifting...

Submitted: Friday, June 06, 2014

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