Old Breath Poem by GRANT FRASER

Old Breath



It's the pinnacle,
not to sound
like anything
else,

call it what you will,
a traditional literary crust,

steak pie of the eye!

no nonsense
gravy thick,
brown as the earth
that pours down
your mirrored insides,

and the mangled
word of life,
skewered on your palate,

too late?

never early,
but always prompt,
but to imagine so much,

I need a soul coupon
I suppose!
a cut out one,
for my repose!

I mean I don't know
what to call your war,
it doesn't compare with mine,

your religosity of death!

and you know,
it's the greedy
frontiers of the western
hemisphere,
that worries me most,

unable to see
through it's own sickness,

and at all costs
prepared to make calamity
and money off of it,

and the herd already
lining up daily,

for big blue
three litre bottles
of Frosty Jacks...

yes, idealism, is a
cold cold cave from
the days of old,
steaming and not quite
able to die - yet!

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