X Poem by GRANT FRASER

A bloody picture
of summer eggs,

long & think,
muscle stone,

a soft bone
in a hot lunar
tin,

rocketing by....

Mars dribbles
down signs,

as the bull
turns pink then...

yelps!
at the corner,

as bruises
over grow
constricted,

a whiff
of heaven
among smoke
& ether,

lethal packet
these dayz...

chasing the quiet
beats,
along streets,

flourescent domes
of eyes,

all flayed
with paranoiac
decency,

braving
the erect issue,

thought by X...

surrendered
lobbies of the womb...