Sunday, 23 June 2013

lemonade blood

that seeps between the cracks of these bloody pavements red,
made so by dust and sweat and lives that rest before deathbed;
where children sell for dollars five, at self-erected stands,
lemonade blood, sugared sweet, squeezed from their parents' hands.

tomorrow's price, a sixpence worth(!) higher than i recall,
the buyers in their limousines bring tractors to the stalls,
they've had their sip and tasted that metallic resource sweet,
entitled to the whole lot more, let history repeat.

the kids grow up, they question now, "where comes from soylent green?"
but ask away, it matters not what remains yet unseen;
with submerged heads, their thrashing legs, their flailing arms in mud,
then soil the fancy silken shirts with clear, lemonade blood.

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