First Beats... Poem by GRANT FRASER

t's mad...mad...maddest!
ten of those things frozen
along your image socket,

frayed, messy, dirty,
red skirtings of skin.
all glossed up in places,

in a grainy room,
apon a wooden floor,
like a door about
to burst open!

for rocks in their
molten socks,
trembling,

tip toeing,
keep going...
like a hungry hound,

with a heart nailed to
a door,
of a she conspiracy,

or the sun outside
bustling hot,
against magnified glass

bellowing everything up,
each little dark bristle,
at a time...a totem!