Treasure Island

GRANT FRASER

(JUNE 7 1964 / ABERDEEN)

The plug hole


There's something
about the plug hole,
that vital inner place,

while everything
plaintively dies,

the plug hole,

this place is absolutely
everyone's at some moment in time,

I mean - it's sucked away - away,

and so dry on the high street
of furtive eyes,

trying to shake out some idea,

that the clock is turning back,

or that love is here and finally
rehearsing,

yes, the mind squats close to
the plug hole,
trying not to feel the vital
force -

of gravity pulling on it,

not I! not this, not yet!

but off course, there is courage,

for you to scream out still,

ah! love, when did you ever love
anybody or everybody, anything,

all at once,

the word spun from your very lips
and skimmed through the air,
without resound or rebound,

fell empty among a horde
of weary feet,

I caught the face, the look,
of another's self torture,
but didn't feel it!

inabilities to feel,
is what I feel i must have,

long range pursuit to the end
of my years,

and of course - the plug hole,

will be our equality,

when it's all over...

Submitted: Thursday, October 10, 2013
Edited: Friday, October 11, 2013

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