Bridie Final Draft

13 Jul

Square eyed apartheid:
littered with copyright seeds
and snake skin crusts
we feed on to stay alive.

Plumper plants are harvested
when roots detach from
old tribe masters’ ravage of junk
coating pulses in cold plaster.

Yet she swallows
like it were the best meal cooked up,
grazing on her home pasture.
Even if that side glows green,
it don’t feel the right texture.

Sinkhole ruts of jobless drudge
spur her mastication
on branches hacked with axes
shining tired propagation.

Comfort blanket hatred
barks strangling obscenities
at contrasting hands in unity
while black and white, capital chants
grant consciences impunity.

Still, strawberries pop from pockets of her dress
as she coos for moles
on a baby’s head.

Still, we jig to a magma throb
charging cores
with rhythmic hugs.

Still, that twisted point lands flat
when her last five’s placed
in a poor man’s hat.

Still, tinny click clacks of wilting clocks
are drowned by hums
of a pegged-out wash.

And as long as bees trampoline
from daisy globes
to rose petals and leaves,
the sweetest of honey
will wrap round our teeth.

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