The Berry Giver poem

My name is Straw B. Barry

I was bought by my master at a discount grocery store.

6,99€.

I sit in a white plastic bucket

with a hook

for hanging outdoors

but

I don’t hang, I sit.

On the top shelf

of a cheap black plastic book case.

I was placed on a balcony in a low rent socialist apartment complex

in Germany.

Luckily, the inner courtyard is full of trees, bushes, plants, and flowers

If I had eyes

it would be a decent view.

I don’t know if I’m male or female but I do know I would like to produce berries

It feels like my mission in life...

I have just started to plume.

Small pink-ish buds

flowers which feels rather feline,

so I must be a female...

I am, however, silent.

So I let my bright pink/red flowers

call out to nature. Out they come.

I let my sweet perfume waft in the breeze

and It calls to the bees

to pollinate me

I dance in the breeze,

with these "leaves

of grass"

I must be female,

my need to attract-

I am calling every day,

in my own silent way...

But...

It is now July and I have not produced

one- single -f-ing berry!

Damn, berry season is over now!

My flowers are slowly dying,

withering, blithering and shrivelling,

brown and black

Falling down floating down slipping-

down

Good God,

I am so sad

I’m so madcap.

Out I push more flowers,

just to get me some sun.

Voluptuous

soft untouched velvet petals,

Red and greensoft

blown by the wind

and...

off away they go...

Some of my leaves have died,

My master plucks them off me

and throws them over the balcony!

Fucker!

Some flowers fall to the floor,

having never ever been seen

lying on the cold dirty concrete floor.

An obscenity.

I sit deep now, fully in blossom

Open to all.

In full glorious bloom, righteous and tall.

Me, my seducing nature,

only to have God turn her back on me!

Can I get some therapy here?!

Epilogue

I have not produced one single strawberry!

I cannot hold my leaves up much longer.

There is a droopiness to me,

I languish with droop and desire

of what may not ever be...

I no longer call myself

Strawberry Plant

and I hate nature,

with her

secret selfish shitty silences

And her denial.

Her pleasure at my begging.

At least my owner can scream and rave ...and he does scream and rave and overeat!

I must sit, in quiet acceptance of my insults and wilt in shame,

I’ve been embarrassed at my pride,

at my silly flowers, my nature

My growing in the sun, so in need,

so freezing in the night.

Alone...

My stupidity and hope.

only to be unfulfilled

and

jealous

of other berry givers.

(Updated! 1 month later)

Yes

Yes...

Good God Almighty

Yes!

Secret Service bees

must have come

seeing red

and greedy after a late season binge.

On September 11th,

I gave birth, for 27 hard hours

to two tall, niedlish strawberries

Yes!

Everything has changed now

completely-

Oh how shallow I was, how pithy

At long last I am a berry giver!

A Berry Giver!

Sing Hallelujah!

but,

my master is eating them all,

that greedy pig...that bulbous banbitchuit

Rips them right off the stem.

He seems to like them,

He’s eaten everyone

It is now October

and I am still a bearer of fruit

Oh how wrong was I?

Oh how wrong I was

I’m a late bloomer

a latecomer

Red flowers, small berries, green leaves, yellow leaves, white flowers

how was I so hopeless?

How?

written in Leipzig