Now the paint drips, like nectar over tongue
He squats to sexualize the mad soil
Lying abreast….
They surround like ears go fishing for music
Throwing up the smoke as he does always
He pees his pain like sore memories
And they laugh and shy
At fluids that keep life going
Uphill, beating impotency and religion of politics
So the farmer squats
To sow
To impregnate the earth, with seeds and moisture
His paint drips like climate in some cheery trees
Like dreams when our skirts freeze…
1 comment:
Hello Linda,
This one is really interesting and amazing..just a sheer display of your strong control over words and rich imageries which embroider this piece. Metaphors also, do deserve only praises.
Do drp by my blog someday for i would be eagerly expecting your response on the other side...:) :)
Cheers!
Sourik
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