Don Poem by GRANT FRASER

I bounce to the machine
in my skin thin, black socks,
quick! quick!
I 'll tell it, before word's, flip,

And revert to power
just as it flowers,
neuron pillage,
as the filament wavers,

Inspiration along a Wi-Fi of wires,
we, that empire of dying,
trials of life's great rape,
not a whole body, just the mouthpiece,

With knowledge churning out,
you envisage, a series of mental scrapes,
a sense of not belonging,
burning relief, out along time...

Should you revolve, or expire?
lay yourself open
to great psychical contests,
word hoax, like a choked sink,

You just don't know where to fly,
then a paradigm or paragon,
a prick from a Digital Bird's Bill,
of bloody black keyboard plastic,

There is a great humming sound,
all the way out, into some imaginary place,
where life constantly revolves,
intuitively shaped, tiny technological arteries,

You tell me, they just won't sit right,
and that the Oxford Don blazes bright,
meaning's great big academical coffins,
left ajar, death's pale prevalent nose, dead comma!