Purple Or Blue Poem by GRANT FRASER

It doesn't matter
what you do,

or if you want
to be picked
up again ever,
by something
else
or someone better,

even me or anybody?

it doesn't matter
because I tap or
hit you,
with return me
noughts,

make a lion's
face,

whining simple
everyday
poetry
of the erudite singer,

great distances
do I ponder as
I thrust dry chords,
up out against the
living room wall,

sing sing sing

feel what it is...

the dry corpse
of words,
shining like
splinters of
granite,

the radioactive
dust of thinking,
spreads out
like a contamination,
or a weight
of dark lead,

heavy,

pull's you up or along
the page with each try,

salvage the freedom
of each word,
as an entity
of it's own
particular peculiar sound,

I cannot bruise
nor simply bleed
them dry,
even if they are
lost to me,

and when they're
more resistant,
or distant,
my fifty year old
strategy is to use
them like
walking sticks,

bloody awful stagger
have I ever really
had the true use of them?

purple why don't
you open up to me,

crown my vicinity!

I just don't think
the colour blue,
does me justice!