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I mind my pomegranate like an open door watch it from the corner of my bed with the lights on It grows on trees here so I mind my pomegranate & like an open door   it creaks fruitlessness; do all pomegranates stain like shadows? I crack its fruit onto the floor and mind my pomegranate like an open door, watch from the corner of my bed   The pomegranates felt a sense of belatedness so they imitated until they created their own culture By this, of course, I mean the pomegranates felt a sense of belatedness so   their art was modelled after Chronos, engendering time and all its tensions Even building in their prime the pomegranates felt a sense of belatedness so they created until they imitated their own   Have you ever heard of the Heraclitean pomegranate? Or seen its shape-shifting jewels whip light from an egg-yolk into vanishing air? Oh but have you ever heard of the Heraclitean pomegranate?   Tell me, when was the last time you fed the pomegranate, allowed its composition to transform you? Spill it! Have you ever heard of the Heraclitean pomegranate? Or seen it whip jewels like a shapeshifter?   I was pomegranate the other day and tripped over a bur Nowadays, I always get a sprain when I pomegranate My grandfather said he was pomegranate the other day and tripped—   like when the colonisers withdrew and left his tree exposed to the hewing I don’t want to think about when I was pomegranate The other day I tripped over It was a blur Nowadays, I always forget my name     This pomegranate is like a pomegranate: it falls from the sky and stains everything red on impact It’s deaf to the screaming children This pomegranate is like a pomegranate:   you can’t tell which way or who it’ll split For fate decides—meaning power decides It’s too late when this pomegranate is like a pomegranate falls from the sky and stains everything red