Treasure Island

GRANT FRASER

(JUNE 7 1964 / ABERDEEN)

Up and Out


I cover the ground,

and get old.what changes,

the territory?

and yet I feel the grump
of age going off inside,

what kind of change or art
will satisfy the misgivings,

that the hand attached to my arm
will strike out differently in time,

robots do not ask of forgiveness...

they are used to the task,

I cannnot get beyond the mere
being, in me,
intractable character of my lot,

the stink of going everywhere
in my thoughts,

if I suddenly flinch,
or turn about,

does this mean that I am about
to control this other me,

the internal one, quiet,
lifting up each leg and hoisting
it onto the solid ground,

or would words suddenly change
or adjust what I am thinking
or about to say,

maybe i can love the unloved?

maybe death will roll out of the
way, for a time...

my wallet is already bleeding me dry!

faces crash into mine,
until I cannot decide?

something is masticating
on our virtual stalks,

blinded, fogged by the thin
gauze of death and nothing,

bridges of black mascara carry
you up, until it falls the other
way...

a real green polythene bag
extension of the grocery
mood,

the high street buildings,

and the lamp lights climbing up,
and out,

to the planets beyond....

Submitted: Monday, October 14, 2013
Edited: Friday, October 25, 2013

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