On the subject of 2020

Coming from Buffalo »

B.H. Fraser

April 1st, 2021.

Filed under 2020,Poems


Coming from Buffalo


in electronic thunder,


Moose sits on a bridge between nowhere and anger


in the tumbling down of numbers




a regular formula


he had about the morning rush hour –


a Moose species


in phone-land, locked down and gated,


in paralysis.








bets against himself


all spontaneous and specialist




while falling


a long way and back again.


Looks down on himself: he is muted,

spewed forth finally from heated tunnel –


each bump a jolt concentrated


and without thinking


in a glass eye of blind tempo,


tools ready, eyes ahead, weather-beaten, almost military.


The memory of Washington


Each morning in a mirror:


to make a million.

The War on Terror »

B.H. Fraser

March 1st, 2021.

Filed under 2020,Poems


As we crossed a trackless plain

directed by camera –

our only record
as we crossed a trackless plain

directed by camera:


A cluster of legs accelerated

numbers heated by bodies

heated by bodies
ready for the quick stamp panic attack

of gas attack.

Repeated and played and watched
by men and women tracking us

senior officials with senior and sensitive facts

about our lives and loves

repeating to themselves

it was good for us to be watched

and after the attack to conclude

there were now less of us to track.

Bust »

B.H. Fraser

February 1st, 2021.

Filed under 2020,Poems


With bills to pay more bills

Along a stony path of i-o-u-s

The good doctor would say to me:

‘I have a giant conspiracy to make you happy.’

Is it easy to use the spring, the safety catch I mean.

I guess I owe to you a snafu or something:

A pup to stroke like it was new,

A forget-me-not or two.

Hail to the chief »

B.H. Fraser

January 1st, 2021.

Filed under 2020,Poems



Hey, Amigo. Yes, Gringo.

You and I we travel in tunnels.

They say this stuff makes you invincible.

So both of us in shadow –

the brain controlling sums alien.

These sums measure the smallest tremble.

Amigo, I notice your hand upon something personal.

And after we are done, I forgot to mention

I’ll be waiting.

Escobar, Jesus is coming.



So show respect.

Assist me, assist The Magnificent.

I am invincible on ground unlimited.

And I sit in tower with cup between industry and dust

organiser of the money shot.

In each face

where once were words now is humming.

He is? Tell me he is.

He is: “es nuestro amigo”

We told you before,

Escobar, Jesus is coming.



Gringo, this wall you said….

Amigo, it’s likely to account for many dead

but who cares / what the heck.

We have this tunnel of ours:

to enter together and lie there flat wanting,

the sweat of coke, the sweat of ambrosia.

It could be quite a party and I shall lack little:

Escobar, I hope you vote for me.

And you one day for me, Gringo,

when America is Mexican.

In the Beginning: California »

B.H. Fraser

December 1st, 2020.

Filed under 2020,Poems


In what seemed a time interminable

This is how the world ‘beginned’.

Let it describe it –

Had the start and no sin.

If you stumble around darkness,

It can be quite harmless.

In tints of Eden, sketches,
We was completely liquid.

Shadows but happier

Completely innocent.  We was.

We hadn’t learnt to spell or think.

To be precise we ‘knowed’ nothing.

Hadn’t put pen to ink

Or even tried to.

Space, collision
Me and Me in conversation.

A big bang,

Quite a picnic.

And what of the budded stem?  Gravity?

All things to all them.

Until the sun cames up

And everything was bright.

Even the restroom but not quite, not quite.

And all the loving I could ever have

In one night

Came from the California light.

Wall Street »

B.H. Fraser

November 1st, 2020.

Filed under 2020,Poems



Your ears, your face,

all soon will be blessed with giant squid.

A vampire in sucking cup,

eight arms and tentacles full of blood.

About being mounted on a stalk,

the suctions, when they get you, almost talk.

In circumference lined with hellish teeth,

the mouth strange parrot-like, something of a leech.



Guard your home against this tick,

It does not share your bread for all to benefit.

A big sponge in the deep,

our squid communes with government

to tell us what to think.

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