**** Weather Poem by GRANT FRASER

The god awful weather
in this city could
drive a man to despair,

feathery wet stuff,
and lot's of other things
going on inside,

the god awful idea
of nothing is my circumspect,

that the god awful world
godless that it is,
presents itself as usual,

empty in places, lassitudes
that have no thunder!
and that the loud noise,
is the tremulous being,
afraid to hear the silent
definition of it's own pain,

so the ear doesn't quite hear,
like it formerly did...

and the gods, well they're
everywhere, as far as I can see,

the men who construct it all around
us, the great beneficiaries of escape,

corporations that have made
a chicken factory out of heads,

the location of the untimely
original idea, a kind of laughable
partly dead thing that seizes
the inner part of you,

fancy that, that any thought you have,
is so much more real, and true,
and hangs there,

a thought balloon, is not so funny!

yours especially,

the true unexplored vast stretches,
that free up the mind,

going...
where are we going,
most importantly? ,

but towards the avalanche!

the whole roof of thinking
will no doubt, cave in one day,

for the better - we hope...