Mark My ***** Poem by GRANT FRASER

I don't want to
go to work,
no! I don't want
to try and write either,

the words can climb
back into their
miserable shells,

I feel sick at
the back of my throat,

the past is vomit
and the future doesn't
really come to me,

in fact I go to it,
with eyes closed,

shape, do you have one,

I don't!

it's that thing they
said would come,

if you keep pressing
on, it will climb up
out of the ground,

yes, it will live
again, somehow,

so long as you keep,
reassessing,

what ever it is,

your hopes, fears,
regards,

planets -

what are you doing
up there,

so far away,

things are simply
disappearing
or crumbling,

and I look on
but cannot hear,

and like the rest
my mouth juts out,

as if a precious
something was sticking
out,

ah! but nothing,

one day I will
bury it,

mark my word less
hole...