Last Orders Poem by GRANT FRASER

Get out of your beds,
c'mon! c'mon!
get out of your heads,
I tell ye!

get out get out get out

before your dead,

horizontal,
vertical,
slant,

can't force,
propell
the thought
trifling
in old stray
bits of cloud,

numerals of green,
strikes silent
anaethesia!

word dancing
by yourself,
quietly bludgeoned
by a hammer!

(cushioned)

one straggling
along the edge,

time will push
you over, in due,

might follow
everything you do...

(already does) ,

you are just a
thought,

blown up
in the sky,

with nobody
left,
to hear it...