Sunday, 13 December 2009

#6. Trading Poems For Jeans

On goes the hippie-hat
batting dreams of saving people
and breaking free of shackles
strapped to ankles of those working bees
left freezing out where violence
has it's podium
and human life has no value.
Grown from the Beat to embracing
sexual changes
sometimes all you need is love
or a cheesy line to strummed guitars
far out in fields
moments no longer real
and memories hazed over
by that puff of smoke
where the caterpillar recited poetry
and everybody ate the mushrooms
leaving behind a whole bunch of yesterdays
with very few tomorrows
rows lined up. Piled up.

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