GRANT FRASER (JUNE 7 1964 / ABERDEEN)

You can't see what's
going on...

it's too dark or black,
we're too blind!

It's not ever been seen,
you can't know?

It's blacker than a hearse,
smarter than a death nurse,

You wont even comprehend what's
coming out of the other end,

Of time standing
with a white stick - click!
click!
click!

Let us see,
we deserve some of it,
you cheat!

God of all human eggs,
spurting forth, worming out,

Camouflage hiding
in the eye of brown red or green,

Obscene pictures of a mouth
pleasantly sucking,

No dinner mats for this,
or anything whatsoever,

Oh! but what we do feel,
leather consternation,
death revels in lacer less
incomprehensible formations,

Writing your F-ing verse out,
whilst I extol a treat from
your greedy stinking shackles
of angles,

With Lighthouse glass
crassing my brain,
for much more storm of scent,

My tongue left dribbling on
the page, now bent,

Noose of sputum!