Ceaseless Poem by GRANT FRASER

I knock back coffee
as if it was beer,

or heat, just put their
for human toil,

c'mon enter,
oil this rut,
roast the nut
inside it's cranium,

pregnant temple,
that winces at the vein,

a bored hand
seizing out to cut -
some other fiend away,

not there, throbbing
evacuation,

this consternating
pendulum inside the veil,

sways this way, another...?

more like a robot helicopter,
so many inclinations, chopping!

spooning out the empty....
until there's only membrane,

self meaning, the dual,
to keep us all alive...


II


The hand of another,
felt,
motioned,

soft
ruptures
in
the
midnight
bedroom
dark

a days
work
of smell
in hair,

flutters
across
your
lower
abdomen

clocks
whirling
magnetic

til each
pulse
reverberates!


III


A hand rested,
betwixt loins,
with flies partly unbuttoned,
blue denim piping,

As if busified
only just then,
should someone walk in....

The activity
wouldn't even sit
or look right,

To some unsuspecting
eye, only just caught there,

like a bee
before it knows it's got
to go and get....

and largely forget
what it's even here for...