Pomegranates and Dystopia
Poem by Syreeta Hewson
Its a little Mad Max here
Order has gone, while my washing is being tugged roughly by the wind – all sparkly bras and pink nightgowns
Pomegranate seeds and juices are sprayed around my feet, fallen to the bone dry ground, painting the dust like blood splatter from my efforts to tear it open
The wine? Its not cold anymore – hell; theres a mirage across these cracked lands from this heat
Lana del Ray croons; she sure suits this halcyon evening
There’s a satellite behind me, but it ain’t real
It’s the underside silver of beach umbrella – you know the candy striped ones?
It’s caught and blows, lazily swaying at first as if testing it’s own willingness for escape
Shuddering in a gloriously felt breeze, I watch without moving as it’s finally grabbed with one hard gust – to spin and land in trees near by
And I say, “ yes! Fly fucker fly!”
I was telling a friend earlier, about the times – more asking perhaps
Where they went
Remember I said – the beat poets, the jazz clubs?
Remember when colour existed?
When hedonism was almost a virtue, or at least it was well dressed.
Remember when character was presence of body, mind and soul – not hiding behind shit screens and fake personas.
Remember when your lips were stained red and I liked it
I tasted them slowly, like nectar.
I bit you
Do you remember yet?