Table Mats Poem by GRANT FRASER

And now to the male,
who switches focus,
so he can disappear
up, out through the ceiling,
into that great sky
of his immeasurable brain,

Why science, philosophy,
psychology, art,
why bother with anything,
that doesn't collectively
change people fast enough,
or bring scope...

Even this stupid poem
with the director not fully
knowing where it's going...

Here is a shiny beige leather
sofa,

Now please accept all the stupidity
and present horror we can muster up!

For I will swank with the rest of them,
when the crucial time comes,

So that I can look good, and join the
procession of care, ,
as to where I live and who I am,
or who I eventually talk or sit with,

I will bare the cross of my property,
bank account, personal hierlooms,
and my meagre dynasty...

and protect the Hyenas around my
dinner table, with good steak,
and fine gushing red wines,
with all the meticulous conversation,
of what i know or don't like!

Then I will falter by the sink,
in the toilet next door,
while the conversation shines
more and more,

Until I am resplendent in that inner
sea of every-day-ness...

And play Priest with simple soap,
then clamber through rock and coal,
with a lamp in one hand,
and an old poem scrunched in the other,

until the farting diamonds, reappear,
shining their multifaceted spasmodic
faces,

where am I - in the gullet of thinking?

no worthy testaments,
for it is my contraption,
my Brain is dead, No Gods!

and the ugly Prince
is always with me...

Whispering!

Whispering!

into my ear,

why love?

why cling?

Night...

day...

Planets...


Profound!