The Wondering Workshop

Israeli authors and poets creating in English

a world without flowers

Written By: Adam Fisher - Jun• 12•12

the sun shines brightly cutting through the haze
into tight corners of the post-atomic daze
the concrete alley floor, with its broken flower pot
is dead and cracked and quiet, and it’s steaming, baking hot

the dark red flower pot lies empty and unused
the seeds that used to lie in it were x-rayed ’til they bruised
then pop-pop-popped like popcorn, like the fireworks and guns
that sprayed the world with pesticide, that coated nature’s lungs

as i walk through the alley of the shadow of death
i’m human and unbeing as i draw my last breath
it smells like the safety of gunpowder and bombs
like the laughter of kids screaming and the slaughter of songs

the walking dead surround me, but they think they’re alive
as they shamble through the broken-mirrored walls of their hive
they only see themselves, so i’m not sure if i’m real
i don’t know where i came from and i don’t know what to feel

i think i might be floating, might be drowning, might be dead
so who am i to judge these folks for giving in to dread
our lungs are choked with violence and our beds are made with gold
these are the laws that make reality so cold

us wriggling worms are spawned into tiny shaped cells
growing in our prisons that make tiny shapely hells
sanitized insanity in work and in play
we’re dying by the hour and we’re dying by the day

the queen desires nothing that’s not one-of-a-kind
and it’s not like she’d know, ’cause the old bitch is blind
so we feed and we grow and we’re always moving on
like locusts to the harvest, like the choppers to king kong

on our insect shoulders we have carried great beasts
from their homes in ancient eden to bright long-tabled feasts
but now we eat in silence in dark concrete parkades
while we stare at cave paintings of electric charades

the emperor’s new clothes are all hanging on my line
i’m threading them like needles as i sew you a rhyme
the worth of my own rags is embarrassing at best
but i wrap myself in them to get ’em off of my chest

if only guns shot flowers, and the atom bomb was stopped
if money could buy oxygen and politics were dropped
perhaps the hive would open up, let in a bit of light
the bears could have their honey and the bees a sense of sight

but there are no more flowers for the bees to pollinate
say a prayer for the flowers, ’cause for them it’s too late


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