Ideal-Ism Poem by GRANT FRASER

'Dont ask
for beauty
in the garden
of ugliness's...'

If only
I could sell a poem,
cut away
one of my unusual flowers
and hand it to you,

Trouble is
my Roses
dribble & spit,

they don't like humans
much either,

See this,
I got to cross
fertilise all over again,
from everything down
to the stem,

Thorns want to be heard,
don't they?

Though everybody's so busy
sniffing and wooing,
Isn't it pretty -
just like a woman,

I pout with implement
in hand, dig the soil
up around me,

God where to go,
what to move,
while uselessness
becomes a form
of self love,

You must not...
you must not...

wither!

But for all ugly
creatures,
rich or poor,

My only inclination
is to not touch,
but acknowledge...