Wednesday Whatever... Poem by GRANT FRASER

I've been dreaming
for two and half hours,

and all I remember:

some familiar face
telling me where he's
stood for the last twenty
five years in the stadium,

I don't frequent these kind
of places, in reality, anyway,
I'm sportless,
don't like the agression of crowds,
at least here...

it's nearly nine at night,
and I have to go, shower,
do what I have to do,

so I put something in the oven
first, then I shave inbetween
with blue double blade bic,

the change doesn't stop, these creases,
white stubble, that age thing hovers
a bit, like a reluctant unkempt bird
on the reflective hanging,

white spirks!


II


It's no good, as I don't eat
enough poetical food,

cause you need to feel great,
if you feel it's going to be worthwhile,

the oven is wafting smells
about, not the most inviting
either,

(I have to go and check...)

that's it, the fries are partly burned
at the ends, the rest like it fell off
a conveyer belt, next to an automaton,
in the middle of the night,

but how can I produce anything
worthwhile in a world that is
getting hungrier all the time?

off course I am merely the byproduct
of everything I think or do,

but true food, that's the stuff
you can't put a price on,
or might have to give away,
(for the good of human kind)

besides, I have a shift to go to,
but I never ever stop thinking
that someday, everything I see
and think inside will come out
like something you've never ever tasted,

and you will know it....