My True Aim Is Pluto Poem by GRANT FRASER

What a shame it's just
what you'd expect...

As ten hundred thousand
dreams are dreaming,
these card board cut
out things, they just
suspend you for a time,

Actors, that's just
what they are....
your principle flow
is not to try and do that....

Even when you know
your not exactly lying,
good lines for interesting
faces, and little space...

'I'll tear all thought up,
and spit it out like blood
spattered confetti! ',

Red, redder, and reddest,
of all our deep blood thinking,

That's somehow mixed
up in it,
the discuses,
beneath skin,
all colliding, towards
the passion of our mere
corrupted breathe -

'Smoking black fog of Ruth,
with her lovely jutting T-Bone',

Didn't sense it coming this
way or the next,
a word accentuating,
inside a colourful gossamer cape,

'You don't want anything
like that to get inside you....',
as the protective coating
might just come, right off!

Word your more of a Jackal,
darker than I, like some other shadow
moving past....breathing faster....

Now you 'know', the 'no'
the equivalent of what it's
like to die...searching...

For the naked almighty tongue,
rabid in it's juicy cot...
will declare, and dance
to the partly precious nothingness,
of life...