GRANT FRASER

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

Requiem For A Sun Bather - Poem by GRANT FRASER

After a while
it's all stripped,
until there's nothing
but the engine,
like a quizzical sex
glaring back...

I can't handle it...
like when everybody goes
mad inside, trying to figure
out, the dark dark deeds of human beings,

vertical, on a street,
I go, with a sudden urge
to cling to something missing,

and somehow falling..

until blue sky wallops me,
all violence and social
industry, are hard to swallow,

people as cold as graves,
marching through life,

that could make me cry,
it does!

what can I do to raise
the opportunity,
and truly live again,

a glimmer of something,
almost reaching me,

to step out, and touch,
or at least break something
away,

yeah, of all control
buttons,
and overrated perks,
mundane technology....


II


what is that, when you don't want to
even want to have to say, what it is,
and not that it could ever be anything
other than, what goes on, since your
eyes got blasted open, and the mind
in a sort old cold place, stripped naked,
barren, unable to comprehend, even defend
itself with meaning, that tends to divide,
lopped off by disbelief, and all that nothings
that cover your brain daily, and will not
penetrate the soul deep within you, and
the compunction of survival therein....

I couldn't see it
for reading this book,

the words baking one by one,

beads sweating
like myriads of liquid balls,

I had to get it out of me,

stand empty
in front of my reflection
on the wall

I do not believe...
I do not believe...
I do not believe...

I do not know
even
why I am here?

and yet I am not
scared of you,
that justifies little
in what you do,
because you do,
or think you are better,

requiem for a sun bather,

artefacts or heart attacks,

natural ending's for having
abused your health, to work
non - stop and go nervously
to those foreign climes,

I cannot relax, I am
not rich, nor am I capable
of doing anything wiser,

in your petrified domicile
you have not died enough,
at least, not to think you
are above, taking lives,
you are not God!

power slakes your demonic
thirst, both coward and bully boy,

we'll never bed down
properly on any of Earth's
beaches ever again,

apart from being born complainers,
we're just British,
and whether we're really just
worked to the bone and think
that our holidays in the Sun,
is all there is,

the sun is a mystery
whenever I close My eyes,
it's planets moving round & debris....

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Poem Submitted: Monday, October 26, 2015



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