Down Below Poem by GRANT FRASER

It doesn't really stop
with faces...oh! no!

but carries on below,
where even words to
express that find, shall
not be defined,

but rather - I think it's
time to go,

No beautification upstairs
can comfirm the whole design,

this tedious above ground
and under,

is like - bus rides and texts,
food gladly swallowed, beers in
raucous bars, eyes like luminous
balls, vollied back and forth,

a chance encounter on the stairs
with Mr or Mrs...

is what we're dealing with here,
and the annihilation of boredom,
certain death and uncertain...

the mirror stands spirked,
there's far too much of you
at close inspection,

this other face carries little
of the other beckoning,
and the limits hang suspended,

or the soft tickings bustling
off radar,
resoundings of predatory blips!

blip! blip! blip! blip....

oh! my God how could you not
have such wonderful lips,
given the circumstances...

like bright red ribbons tied
across the whole stage,

why even beauty almost resides,
like a criminal, with a dark role;

so much so much not be ever heralded
or known, what behind the lustful
stabbings of a mouth stretching out?

like a fiery red moon
boiling up the ocean...