Saturday, May 5, 2012

How Does Your Garden Grow ?

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Mary, Mary, quite contrary,
How does your garden grow?
With silver bells, and cockle shells,
And pretty maids all in a row.[1]

a fucked future
where the next meal
will come from
we do not know
ha ha
how does your garden grow ?
begging at a signal of life
cars motorbikes in a row
as they speed stop and flow
beautiful as they glow
cursing
our lives
our woe
punished for the
fornicating sins
of our forefathers
our own parents
we hardly know
a seed in a hurry
they sowed
the streets
the pavements
traffic signals
our worldly abode
a poetic episode
our hopes in the gutter
god over generously
bestowed
our lives overload
our innocence
robbed on
every road
by a charming prince
who after devouring
the best of us
turns out
to be a toad
soon a new life
on our waist
conveniently
widowed


Mary, Mary, quite contrary,
How does your garden grow?
With silver bells, and cockle shells,
And pretty maids all in a row.[1]

words a poet echoed
the same words twisted
mauled mangled
another poet borrowed
as street sorrow
from his camera
overflowed

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