Of the Thriving Frond
(For 'lakunle)
When the next eid arrives
And the next
The next
And the next
A thousand eids and more
When each arrives
Its baggage and rams
Hopes and aspirations with it,
I’ll rip semi-healed scars
And serve memories of wars, ours,
With death’s spite.
To them that care,
I’ll tell of mon pere
And ma mere.
Palms hacked at noon.
I'll tell the tale of a thriving frond
Watching sleeplessly over a hacked palm
And its plain
I’ll tell my tale
And theirs
For a greater them glows in me.
Sunday Talk
(for 'Deola)
The last time we talked was on a Sunday
Talk of you and I
Bards’ phalluses and cunts
And wine
Love and hate
And friends
We spoke of death, you started it
We ran out of airtime.
More Sundays will come
And we’ll talk
And run outta airtime
And talk some more
For death’s scared of you.
November
Pour
Clop Clop Clop
The puddle behind my room weeps
As drops of cum baptise it
Water washing water
Heaven’s a fucker this November
Fucking bad
And with no ending
No rush
It often orgasms with a rumble
And resumes the do.
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