The Diagnostics Of Self Truth Poem by GRANT FRASER

Your dipping into mind
or taking away some idea,
of what you believe to
be some speculation or such...

Yet I freeze as the word
leaves my tongue,
with a host of red porous
taste,

And return post haste to
suck again,

women suck
women suck it
women really suck it,
make a sucking sound as such,
until the sound of it touches,

Somewhere where internal pictorials
surround it, then +, before -,
with vitality!

Sometimes the sound of your mouth
is too much or not enough,

Suck and love
seen to be one,

The colorful flagstaff of principle,

As is, when men lick,

men lick.
men really lick
men really lick it,

making a licking a sound as such,
until the sound of it touches,

I must have drifted off
somewhere...

before a thought - like waste of time,
- got there,

Why couldn't I prevent,
why shouldn't I invent?

Would've should've entered
without knocking just like you did,
out of nowhere,

Just as I thought you...

Everybody goes to bed with somebody,
everybody goes there long before
they get there,

You are my link,
the indivisible print,

And in a beautiful picture like way,

To wear nothing else, but my own face,

And see in others, what they are seeing,

As if perchance one could survey
the complete and utter lonely halls
of another,

No Keys,
No fear of entrapment,
No guilt!