Mirror Sketch Poem by GRANT FRASER

The bristly skin,
soap bar melted,
electric Q - tip!

can't figure out
what a man is for,
if he love's, really,
or if it's not a chore...

hard fingers caught
in, the green jam on toast
- door,

but he's mental,
I mean cold sentiment,

leaks out like a bust
biro, in the swollen
room of apparitions,

what is anything,
when you can't even
fathom the gall bladder
of time,

thought recycling,
if only the bare facts
could be melted down,
the sauve pretensions
given lethal injections,

thought always takes
a different road or
a wrong turn,

this is not what
you started off with,

if not that woman
with her head cooking,

kneeling, blue as a Calor
bottle,

sometimes you have to remember,
that there is nowhere for
the craft to land...

morphing along chrome finishes...