Rush Hour Strangulation Poem by GRANT FRASER

There's not much to me
not at all,
but that doesn't mean
I don't think...

thinking whatever it is
I care to want to think about,

I mean what if all words
are just verbal spew?

because i just get so sick
of you,

making me feel as If everything
needs much more explanation,

so what is the point
if you cannot change what
you are, or what they make you,

a dreary profession!

I am going to go to sleep
having looked at one or two of you,

in eternity!

and my mouth will fragment
then burn and it will all mean nothing,

so why chirp!

(never mind...aye...eye..aye...) ,

nit, dinna, aye - aye - aye - yes,
you know? ye caen, well...aye, ach?

then a kind of expulsion of breathe!

to think that nothing much
kind of interests me, when it comes
to fashioning this old verbal quest,

whether I should have set out like
this, pondering things I can barely
fathom...

and that the world around me,
and the faces lurking beneath
the sky are feeling something too,
in that remote split second of
emotional nothingness,

I have not set out,
or set about anything
in the possible, plausible,
direction, i could have?

the mouth of cell phone eats,
Status symbol has no true world!

emptiness is an equitable bargain,
and limitation, sleeps with estimation,

so all the better for you, in productive
financial sleep,

you and all your kind are just

Bleeps! ...Bleeps! ...Bleeps! ...Bleeps!

Bleeps! ...Bleeps! ...Bleeps! ...Bleeps!