On the subject of Poems

Default virgins »

BHFraser

February 12th, 2010.


Filed under 2010,Poems

 

With flag and acropolis,

   As animal spirits greeted us

The air shook,

  Sound mutinous,

A trade Med with Club dead.

  Some of this familiar.

Hurriedly, I put my ear to the ground

  To hear junk trembling.

Soon they would come,

  These default virgins

Bearing rotten olives

   Without demurring.

My beautiful trade »

BHFraser

February 12th, 2010.


Filed under 2010,Poems

 

    It was clear, blue, immobile.

Suddenly on command

    And quite snappy

In one direction and then another

   Straining at both illusion and shadow

It made me quite happy

   Getting directional

With every aspect of infinity

   A trade of itself

So pure

   I stayed up late

Uncorrelated to behaviour

  As he or she was

Or could be

   Possibly.

Meet the investor »

BHFraser

February 12th, 2010.


Filed under 2010,Poems

 

To arrest the error

    To tackle the devil

   To offer steps to Sibyl

To unravel the riddle

      Of trade perpetual.

I give you a séance/stance

   Of monkey dance

And half a chance

  To get to France

To fix the farmer who went to Basel

  To clip my hedge

 

   German or French

Watched from my floating note

   With trail upon trail.

The Shoe »

BHFraser

February 12th, 2010.


Filed under 2010,Poems

 

He seemed to be in the grove,

Where the eye meets dot.

Press send,

I said passing him

On the cross between Strand and Fleet.

Acknowledged as friends

Amid the bright din

A delete with unknown horn yet.

Wasted was this breath to stop his melody,

As he turned

As quick

Into traffic:

Walked across the road in front

The watch he had still watched

A world on its axis stopped

The flame was bright still and he fought

Then gave a rattle, a rally,

A man approached

The shoe traveling,

An air of hostility in flight

A vision.

Screaming inside amen.

A blade of bread »

BHFraser

February 12th, 2010.


Filed under 2010,Poems

 

Nothing goes inside this tank,

   It’s called a bank.

Not even the pay

   Which used to flow

Like the sound of music.

   Yes, the hills were alive

And loaded.

   Now we crawl around,

Inside this dry acquarium.

   There are no fishes or loaves

With with which to conjure miracles.

   Not even a blade of bread

With which to bury the dead.

Boson »

BHFraser

February 12th, 2010.


Filed under 2010,Poems

 

With the mental strength of Daniel

   And the paws of Samson,

    This double of Ben Johnson,

           My watchful Boson,

To you is dedicated my song.

In conversation rare was your rank,

     Not just among dogs

       But also amongst men.

   In stuff that stuff is made of

     Your friends included

 Shakespeare, Bacon and Donne.

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