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(JUNE 7 1964 / ABERDEEN)

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Bury it my self

Turning
very quick,
or throwing
dirt
up between
the arch
of my bellowing
legs,

then doubling back,

polishing
polishing
polishing
the word

as my punishment...

thing is,
you will look
like you look,
whether you look
or not...

and once I bury
you again,

then dig you up...

I know it's my bone,
idleness...

no point in living
without some kind of chore,

I know?
but I don't know...

I know?
but I don't know...

any more...

Saliva dribbling...

Submitted: Saturday, February 01, 2014
Edited: Monday, February 17, 2014


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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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  • Bri Edwards (2/12/2014 4:02:00 PM)

    i think you gave at least a part of it away at the last line. but i still don't get the whole thing. oh well, no need. it was 'interesting to say the least.
    i had a similar chore (to the poet i mean) to make life 'worth' living; i was a u.s.postal service clerk. now poetry is one of my 'chores'/enjoyments/reasons-for-living. thanks for sharing.
    bri :)

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