GRANT FRASER

Silver Star - 3,375 Points (JUNE 7 1964 / ABERDEEN)

Handprint - Poem by GRANT FRASER

Gold - isn't that
some kind of escape,
from everything & everyone,

that internal surge
where you call into
being, so many imaginary
haunts, and you are placated,

blood sways from one
mind to another,

there is contact,
or that you find as soon
as possible who you are,
and where you reside, inside...

that face is only a place
for you to look out of,
so don't get carried away...

beauty & ugly,
such soul twins,

today he actually
hid that dead hand behind
the door,
and I said:
glaring into the P.D.A.
'I'll sign it off, for you! ',
stupid way to put it...,
as they're going to cut it
off - cause he injected
into an artery,
a casual Freudian slip,
but he was out of it,
big red & white saucers, spinning!

I'm not exactly Edgar Allan about it,
but the hand still follows me about...

maybe it's a kind of post disgust?

bye bye maybe, maybe goodbye,
by maybe, maybe? - bye! bye! ,

bye bye maybe, maybe goodbye,
by maybe, maybe? - bye! bye!

something left over from the radio
programme no doubt?

for a while all I can envisage
is surgeons and fine saws,
a stump sewn up
in a room on Hanover Street,

my face grows
a bit more ugly,
in the distance,
of where I am,

and I have a bad breathe
today!

intermediate disgusting
collisions of realness felt!

Topic(s) of this poem: poem


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Poem Submitted: Wednesday, September 23, 2015



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