Silver Star - 3,185 Points (JUNE 7 1964 / ABERDEEN)

Tom Thing (With English Subtitles) - Poem by GRANT FRASER

Tom spend too much time,
all the time, looking,
waiting for bait,
worms in his brain,
he cannot integrate,

Thinking of the big red cherries,
all of them,
So young thing turns the spotlight up,
further, upon herself,
against a back drop of Moroccan Orange

She switches poses and woman things,
quicker than remote control,
but disappears, yet reappears in
other windows,
so Tom gets to elaborate with a cordless
silver phone,
but there's no voice in the ear piece,
just the idea of someone picking it up
slowly and coming on...

Hi honey are you the hot fly
on my wall tonight - how big's
your **** and all,
I'm just a little dirty so and so,
and that's just how it goes...Ha!

Then it's like somebody switched on,
French Film Noir, and then Tom changes
back again into Jean Pierre,
the most incredible thinker,
who lives his life out in B&W freeze frame,

Cigarette puff! - bits of intellect - cigarette
puff! I think I'm going to get to the grips
with it somehow, I think the pattern is all wrong,
and requires something more adventurous,

And feels a kind of inner knowledge,
that he never felt before,

But Jean Pierre looks up at the clock
and the second hand gives him the finger,
**** you - he thinks - or maybe I should
just throw you out the window!

I mean if we could roll time out with
a rolling pin, it might look flattened,
******! Death is ultimate truth -
the existentialism...

But Jean Pierre feels a shock
inside his trouser leg,
and Tom is back, lurking again,
already unrolling a black stocking
off a long slim leg,
he drags it across her sharp toenails
which make a sound,

I want to eat her cake first,
or touch the moist light sponge,
and the ugly Frenchman with horrible
tittering eyes, makes the most beautiful
French woman in the world feel hideous,

Well Tom may buy binoculors one day,
climb up over rooftops, find out the
living proof, dju think your that different,
eh! yeah! do you?

Maybe Jean Pierre
should think more about the symbols
of his dream,

He is stuck to the precipice,
and the dizzying fall,
The friendly dog waggling it's tail,
turns demonic and seizes his hand
between it's unmerciful jaws,

and then falls paralysed on a kerb
along a busy street, as the faces close
in, and their prodding hands so cold,

But once Jean Pierre is comatose,
Tom is back watching like a God
over the cheap thrill of a belly pin,

C'mon Hell, get it on again,
the red one - I like it,
the knee length leather boots
with long zips,
and the noise of all the tiny
silver teeth coming down - one
at a time - ever so slowly!
It's thrilling - strut all over
my chest and nipples, Tattooed Venus,
then dig the heels in...

Tom is the Minotaur smoking inside
Jean Pierre, and somebody ****** off
with his ball of string, out of here...

Because Jean Pierre read the heavy stuff,
fell headward in, sucked up all the Superman
swill, got drunk on Dionysian grapeshit!

And Tom was somewhere in there,
peeping all the time,
half a bloody lifetime and your sleeping,
your a catalogue dream, know what I mean?
death is the only certainty,

Jean Pierre has torn himself inside
mirror less souls, trying to keep Tom
under control, but that's what happens
when faith - goes out the window,

But it's just a matter of time,
before they both disappear,

as if they ever existed?

Topic(s) of this poem: poem

Form: Ars Poetica

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Poem Submitted: Wednesday, March 27, 2013

Poem Edited: Tuesday, December 6, 2016

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