3 Heads Poem by GRANT FRASER

1.


All circuitry
blown,
to remain
at home,

This nerve
deserted,
is not me,

But something
inherited or inert,

The habitual
gargantuan butterfly,
Wings sweeping,

In a stomach lined
with fine rice paper,

Don't glue together!

Hardly conceivable
a thatched idea..

As the word quietly
feeding, umbilical,

So mean,
to seem meaningful.


2.


To bend down
to the ground,

look for poise,

a sort of release,
of feeling appeased,

hardly ever,

all but for
the screw,

that God titan,

there is a part
for that inside me,

and it tightens,

these fine threads
into a voice.


3.


Do you vouch
for these mutants,
in your time
theirs

I state mutant,
in the sense,
of somehow
being chosen
as a national voice,

To choke the airwaves,
and supplant a choice,
that is not natural,

So far from fear,
or humane familiarity...