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alexander-k-opicho
alexander-k-opicho
Kenyan my full names are alexander ernesto khamala namugugu opicho , i am a kenyan male and single. My work is full time writting of poetry and part time teaching as a lecturer Governance and Leadership and research methods
She saved his name In the dearest part of the Places in her phone-book As him As the wall-paper As the ringing tone As the welcome message As the shut-down message As the reboot message As the password As the screen lock As the screen saver Because it was him. She saved his name In the tender-most spot of the Tissues in her juvenile heart As the billow of her night As The pillar of her tired body As the undergird for her weak shoulders As The king of her threatened soul As The man of her womanhood As the human part missing in her nature Because it was him. She led herself wallow in the Most turmoil of the whirlpool in his social-sphere that came to her Young academic world For money For sanity For sanitation For security For preparedness For social emergence For the future calamity And for self-completion Because it was him And he was available. Married, settled and most available, Available to all; the young, the adult and the aged Available to men, bi-curious and women Available to the poor, peasant and the owning, Available to the unschooled, the so-so, and the knowing, Available to the widows, the married and the divorced Available to the immaculate, the citizens of red-street world The Harem keepers, red-tent keepers and the pimp’s protégée, Available to the Arabs, Negroes, Asians, the black Jews, Chinese and the Albinos, Available to the whites, Ab-origins, the lame, the bearded and boob-less women, Available to the epileptic, the ghosts, the dead, and for the burial rituals of the Luo, Available he was in extra version as a Libertino. By Alexander Opicho (From, Lodwar, Kenya) [email protected]
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Aug 9, 2019
Aug 9, 2019 at 5:57 AM UTC
Him
She saved his name In the dearest part of the Places in her phone-book As him As the wall-paper As the ringing tone As the welcome message As the shut-down message As the reboot message As the password As the screen lock As the screen saver Because it was him. She saved his name In the tender-most spot of the Tissues in her juvenile heart As the billow of her night As The pillar of her tired body As the undergird for her weak shoulders As The king of her threatened soul As The man of her womanhood As the human part missing in her nature Because it was him. She led herself wallow in the Most turmoil of the whirlpool in his social-sphere that came to her Young academic world For money For sanity For sanitation For security For preparedness For social emergence For the future calamity And for self-completion Because it was him And he was available. Married, settled and most available, Available to all; the young, the adult and the aged Available to men, bi-curious and women Available to the poor, peasant and the owning, Available to the unschooled, the so-so, and the knowing, Available to the widows, the married and the divorced Available to the immaculate, the citizens of red-street world The Harem keepers, red-tent keepers and the pimp’s protégée, Available to the Arabs, Negroes, Asians, the black Jews, Chinese and the Albinos, Available to the whites, Ab-origins, the lame, the bearded and boob-less women, Available to the epileptic, the ghosts, the dead, and for the burial rituals of the Luo, Available he was in extra version as a Libertino. By Alexander Opicho (From, Lodwar, Kenya) [email protected]
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52
It is only a big fool that marries from a matriarchal family And a heavy-weight duffer marrying from the matriarchal clan There is always a poisonous cobra, mamba and adder in the matriarchal Beauty. Snaring like calypso to thrash the callow ridden odyssey in the lover As it went for the stooges in Kenya blind to the colubrine station falling in love With daughters, spinsters, wenches, damsels and brunetes of matriarchal heritage They were swallowed by the inherent colubrine queen at the bottom of matriarchy It swallowed them all, lawyers, warriors, merchants, politicians, beggars, billionaires, Lordships of top-notch corporations, gurus of research, legends of foot-ball, din magnates Negroes, Asians, Britons, Teutonic, Luos, Mulmbe men, Mijikenda and all that had money, Their kinsmen and tribes now grieve in a song, Chanting the song of loss in my mother tongue; Sialile papa!sialile papa! Sicha esirove! Sialile yaya!sialile yaya! Sicha esirove! Wanangali wa wabaseve,Niiye wamulile! Emenyele buli abira! yakhaba mukisumu! Ese beve! ese beve! ese beve!ese beve! By-Alexander Opicho (From Lodwar, Kenya) [email protected]
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Aug 9, 2019
Aug 9, 2019 at 5:56 AM UTC
The Cobra in Matriarchal Beauty
Bribing for Uthamaki survival, Made Kenya a fortune’s fool, Not only Kenya but those that gave And received bribes of all sorts, Job favour and money favour To make Uthamaki an eternal kingdom, They all chewed un-toothsome slices Of the public fortune’s fools, They were bribed by cars, money, jobs, Lands, upmarket houses. And all the stuffs Of bribery regalia, and then they went dumb, On truth and facts of the day; them; Chiloba and Chebukat, dumb they went holus-bolus in the manacle Of the claws of Uthamaki and its jostle for eternity, Like the victims of slaughter in Tolstoyan epics. They hated the truth and fell in love with falsehood, Feeding children of Kenya on the brutality of Gebelawi, Faked elections and police brutality in the alley of Samantha, She died seeing the club of a full geared anti-riot police, it was All but power of the bribe in the vacuum of conscience, The true desire of our ages, ages, ages, ages; desire for ages, A bribe can **** yes it killed Musando, A bribe can **** yes it killed Juma, A bribe can **** yes it killed Samantha Pendo, A bribe can **** yes it killed Stephanie on the balcony, The bribe kills brutally when taken in line of duty, A job promotion to job security fight for Uthamaki, It kills brutally when received in line of avarice; More land, houses in Karen, swollen bank dove-cots, Free lunch and air-ticket windows of the bribe, That can **** you to death when siring Uthamaki, A bribe kills reason, mires power of truth, A bribe fetters love for truth but bigotry extolled, It can sent you to Paris sprinting with the keys To the server room stuffed in your pocket, A bribe warps the mind of the giver and the taker, It makes democracy look the platter on which Was John’s head, I mean the Baptist, Uthamaki nourishes itself on the power of crime, Looting, corruption, ***** riches, prostitution, lawless hawking, Cartels, land-stealing, insider contracting, faked academic testimonies, employment by tribe, gangstering like Mungikification of the youths, insider tendering, and now computer-generated uthamaki all but nothing less than power of the bribe, legerity is full in the hands of Uthamaki, to condemn the sit that loves the truth, fairness and justice is the harmful light to the bat’s eye of Uthamaki, Uthamaki and the truth are oil and water, uthamaki and the truth are as a Muslim and pork uthamaki and the truth are an Israeli and an Arab, they are an anti-thesis, Kenya a battle-field. Uthamaki the thesis of imperial selfishness, democratic truth the poor child of Kenya on the guillotine made of bribe, Uthamaki has the name an epiphany all over, Hospitals, schools, roads, avenues, maternity homes Colleges, toilets, airports, prisons, barracks beyond zero, And so forth, they all bare the name Uthamaki, Uthamaki where are your age-mates and prison mates Imprisoned for parting in struggle for freedom, Uthamaki, You have stolen Kenya’s history and slaughtered the owners At the slaughter-stone of bribe, using the tribe as your Knife,
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Sep 25, 2017
Sep 25, 2017 at 5:51 AM UTC
BRIBING UTHAMAKI IS FORTUNE’S FOOL
Bribing for Uthamaki survival, Made Kenya a fortune’s fool, Not only Kenya but those that gave And received bribes of all sorts, Job favour and money favour To make Uthamaki an eternal kingdom, They all chewed un-toothsome slices Of the public fortune’s fools, They were bribed by cars, money, jobs, Lands, upmarket houses. And all the stuffs Of bribery regalia, and then they went dumb, On truth and facts of the day; them; Chiloba and Chebukat, dumb they went holus-bolus in the manacle Of the claws of Uthamaki and its jostle for eternity, Like the victims of slaughter in Tolstoyan epics. They hated the truth and fell in love with falsehood, Feeding children of Kenya on the brutality of Gebelawi, Faked elections and police brutality in the alley of Samantha, She died seeing the club of a full geared anti-riot police, it was All but power of the bribe in the vacuum of conscience, The true desire of our ages, ages, ages, ages; desire for ages, A bribe can **** yes it killed Musando, A bribe can **** yes it killed Juma, A bribe can **** yes it killed Samantha Pendo, A bribe can **** yes it killed Stephanie on the balcony, The bribe kills brutally when taken in line of duty, A job promotion to job security fight for Uthamaki, It kills brutally when received in line of avarice; More land, houses in Karen, swollen bank dove-cots, Free lunch and air-ticket windows of the bribe, That can **** you to death when siring Uthamaki, A bribe kills reason, mires power of truth, A bribe fetters love for truth but bigotry extolled, It can sent you to Paris sprinting with the keys To the server room stuffed in your pocket, A bribe warps the mind of the giver and the taker, It makes democracy look the platter on which Was John’s head, I mean the Baptist, Uthamaki nourishes itself on the power of crime, Looting, corruption, ***** riches, prostitution, lawless hawking, Cartels, land-stealing, insider contracting, faked academic testimonies, employment by tribe, gangstering like Mungikification of the youths, insider tendering, and now computer-generated uthamaki all but nothing less than power of the bribe, legerity is full in the hands of Uthamaki, to condemn the sit that loves the truth, fairness and justice is the harmful light to the bat’s eye of Uthamaki, Uthamaki and the truth are oil and water, uthamaki and the truth are as a Muslim and pork uthamaki and the truth are an Israeli and an Arab, they are an anti-thesis, Kenya a battle-field. Uthamaki the thesis of imperial selfishness, democratic truth the poor child of Kenya on the guillotine made of bribe, Uthamaki has the name an epiphany all over, Hospitals, schools, roads, avenues, maternity homes Colleges, toilets, airports, prisons, barracks beyond zero, And so forth, they all bare the name Uthamaki, Uthamaki where are your age-mates and prison mates Imprisoned for parting in struggle for freedom, Uthamaki, You have stolen Kenya’s history and slaughtered the owners At the slaughter-stone of bribe, using the tribe as your Knife,
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62
Jacob Ekirapa! who killed you? Your body was found puddled, In blood that oozed out behind your head, In your car you slept humble as in life, Gorged in a trench downslope Kanduyi, You were smiling in death as you ever did in life Mindless to the murderer’s lethal object that crushed Your head from the nape, an early a shot to the realm of deads, Your Life in Lodwar City was Godly and peaceful Serving God via varsity teaching as service to mankind You quarreled not but you ever oozed intellect, The Turkana chicken that roosted in your hearth you never Went foxy to un-feather, deep in purity, a godly conscience, As colleagues and friends were on a pageant of amorous mighty, In a rampage, chasing women, money and Tusker at costs possible Within the range of snobbish freedom that Lodwar-heat allowed, Then you beautifully pitched and harvested a job at home, Only to work at home with vintage discipline, Serving the County people, Bungoma of your birth, Least in your ken that the owl is ogling at you With the certain lust of death, it killed you whole-meal As if it has never killed, as if it has never killed, as if... Killing you was the apex of glory for those that fear a spark Of talent, discipline, brilliance, ****** hygiene, generosity and Technical competence in the nerves of a youth which you evinced, Jacocb Ekirapa! Who killed you? was it a man or a woman? Did the Bukusu people **** you because you are son of a Teso? Or the a Teso killed because you had a job and then becoming rich? The accident theory was a smoke-screen, to throw us off-sleuth You killer hides behind a stage managed crush of your new car, God could have allowed dialogue between the dead and the living For you to tell me the man who killed you, why he killed you and how, You are a friend that death robbed me, leaving me in a lurch of full despair, In this world that is full of gossipers, sadists, bigots, wrys, sardonics, waifs, saddos, Thieves, stooges, copy-cats, tribalists, self-congratulators, killers, egotistic egoists, Making me now a neurotic listologist, but all in all, your death hit me hard below my belt, Like the lunch treat of full Tilapia and Ugali you often did to me in the Oasis of Lodwar town, Life on earth is a precursor of death, and death a harbinger of eternity An obvious quoith for the arrow of your soul, truly, amid the 24 elders of heaven, An obvious station of your un-blemished soul, Godly defiance to the folly of your killers, Stupid, imbecile, idiotic, buffoonish black Africans that killed you, their own Sun, educated son They **** a milch-cow that saves them from kwashiorkor, marasmus and poverty, a black man is comfortable in despair of poverty where voodoo looms, but not in a clime where young-men are schooled, clean, educated, employed and rich-a promise of tomorrow, They killed you but forgive them, they also killed Ken Saro Wiwa, Stephen Adongosi, Steve Biko, Martin Luther King, Jacob Juma, John Kituyi, Meshack Yebeyi, Dr. Masinde of Kanduyi-thence, they are like that, they **** their own solutions only to fall back into mire of poverty-these black idiots,
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Sep 25, 2017
Sep 25, 2017 at 5:39 AM UTC
IN MEMORY OF JACOB OKISEGERE EKIRAPA
Jacob Ekirapa! who killed you? Your body was found puddled, In blood that oozed out behind your head, In your car you slept humble as in life, Gorged in a trench downslope Kanduyi, You were smiling in death as you ever did in life Mindless to the murderer’s lethal object that crushed Your head from the nape, an early a shot to the realm of deads, Your Life in Lodwar City was Godly and peaceful Serving God via varsity teaching as service to mankind You quarreled not but you ever oozed intellect, The Turkana chicken that roosted in your hearth you never Went foxy to un-feather, deep in purity, a godly conscience, As colleagues and friends were on a pageant of amorous mighty, In a rampage, chasing women, money and Tusker at costs possible Within the range of snobbish freedom that Lodwar-heat allowed, Then you beautifully pitched and harvested a job at home, Only to work at home with vintage discipline, Serving the County people, Bungoma of your birth, Least in your ken that the owl is ogling at you With the certain lust of death, it killed you whole-meal As if it has never killed, as if it has never killed, as if... Killing you was the apex of glory for those that fear a spark Of talent, discipline, brilliance, ****** hygiene, generosity and Technical competence in the nerves of a youth which you evinced, Jacocb Ekirapa! Who killed you? was it a man or a woman? Did the Bukusu people **** you because you are son of a Teso? Or the a Teso killed because you had a job and then becoming rich? The accident theory was a smoke-screen, to throw us off-sleuth You killer hides behind a stage managed crush of your new car, God could have allowed dialogue between the dead and the living For you to tell me the man who killed you, why he killed you and how, You are a friend that death robbed me, leaving me in a lurch of full despair, In this world that is full of gossipers, sadists, bigots, wrys, sardonics, waifs, saddos, Thieves, stooges, copy-cats, tribalists, self-congratulators, killers, egotistic egoists, Making me now a neurotic listologist, but all in all, your death hit me hard below my belt, Like the lunch treat of full Tilapia and Ugali you often did to me in the Oasis of Lodwar town, Life on earth is a precursor of death, and death a harbinger of eternity An obvious quoith for the arrow of your soul, truly, amid the 24 elders of heaven, An obvious station of your un-blemished soul, Godly defiance to the folly of your killers, Stupid, imbecile, idiotic, buffoonish black Africans that killed you, their own Sun, educated son They **** a milch-cow that saves them from kwashiorkor, marasmus and poverty, a black man is comfortable in despair of poverty where voodoo looms, but not in a clime where young-men are schooled, clean, educated, employed and rich-a promise of tomorrow, They killed you but forgive them, they also killed Ken Saro Wiwa, Stephen Adongosi, Steve Biko, Martin Luther King, Jacob Juma, John Kituyi, Meshack Yebeyi, Dr. Masinde of Kanduyi-thence, they are like that, they **** their own solutions only to fall back into mire of poverty-these black idiots,
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43
She is a daughter of mild madness, Visiting the humble ***** vulnerable, To grip of kleptomania and depressive manic, Like Shakespeare and Fyodor in the lands yonder, But often once in a while of the blue lunar, Not caring the social class or material status, She boldly loves those wallowing in the pauper’s mire, For they have nothing but time to court her to bed, Bed her down with patience and request for a turn, In lovely contrast to the bed room dilemma, She mocks the rich for boredom in the huge tummy, They stuff her up with un-called for luxuries, And they deny her love in freedom to behave poorly, Her deep-hearted secret, bed-fellowing the poorly, For the sweet gift is in the time they give to her, Like a decade of Odysseus turmoil with calypso, And Pope’s time with art in his torture by wants, To sing the short knowledge is dangerous, On a shallow sip of the pyrene spring, In the classical charm in the essay of man, A strain that only visit the neurotics,
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Sep 16, 2017
Sep 16, 2017 at 5:01 AM UTC
Poetry is a Strain of Madness
Juba you are bloody-red! Like noon-back of the red sea, As if Tinka and Nuer we know, Is complexion-ly red? But no, they are all dark, Under weight of melanin, Only that your guns yell deaths, And fluvial rivulets of blood, Afloat are fear-ridden refugees, From a slaughter of your nation To which you **** not, As if you have a spare-part, No, guns in Juba must down be For us to talk and talk By not listening to the echoes Of our clans, tribes and races, Only for our ears to ***** high In dear audience to the agony, In the voices of the widows, Orphans and the starved ones That had their trust and love Once endowed into you The state of Sudan in Juba,
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Sep 16, 2017
Sep 16, 2017 at 4:45 AM UTC
Blood Path in Juba
…..at Nice, In Paris, He plotted In his heart, A sure menagerie Of snakes without reserve, But on a poor diet of piety, So he designed and executed brutal deaths To them all of no harm, ill-will or any know, But he killed, killed by grinding them, Do no size but smithereens of human flesh, In no guest for mend of awry state, A state without a nation In cute passion of hate Unto all of us that fearlessly say Man must in freedom live.
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Sep 16, 2017
Sep 16, 2017 at 4:44 AM UTC
Truck Terrorist
One time, Now or in the future, Clear or blurred in dimness, Certainly I will go, Back to my origin, In which I was happily extant, Before I ventured in my mother’s womb Back to this realm I will gate-defy Leaving my skin an empty husk, And go there riding in a wagon of death, Pain and grief in dutiful caesura won’t be; My fellow passengers or sailers, Only oblivion to the past a sure pal, Kissing and messaging my bodiless me, From which I derive solace for my past, The life I went through on the crest of Extremes in goodness and matchless pale; Untimely demise coming in union with a kismet, Having me buried minus a coffin, a shroud. Perhaps, Not even a dirge or an elegy from eminent mouths, As my cadaver hangs in hermetic darkness; unlit hut, On a home-made catafalque, willow in stature like nothing, The man died of erstwhile sham diet and Medicare, Will be shelved and hanged like a fish on the rack, Hence am thankful do you death, Master of the un-mastered souls, My beautiful darling and love, Of my heart from bottom to brim And comforter of the hopeless, Thanks for taking me away In the way so miserly, In a beautiful out-beat To the truck terrorist Or the Suicide bomber Or the Guns of juba, Or the Ebolavirus Or Any In The Ilk…
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Sep 16, 2017
Sep 16, 2017 at 4:41 AM UTC
Mourning Myself
A woman who dies in labour, In the pains of pre-delivery For no reason but poor midwifery Is a martyr and a true martyr Than religious charlatans, For she has only died in heroic Defense of life and its perpetuation, She is better than you the user Of contraceptives in odious fit of Family planning frivolity, With condoms and the stuffs Weapons of your ****** war, She is a true martyr To allow live sperms to meander The valleys and fountains of life Without dodging them shrewdly Through wiles of science and tech, Sperms and ova when in a duel they are God’s intent of life, and human lives Alack, suffocating them is heinous A sin as big as murderer Or a terrorism of the Twin towers Or a **** agent armed with gas poison, Let them, the sperms enter the walls of life, Minus fear of deathly virus, let them enter, They intent to give life naturally, Godly, And if they have Aids, then you are A martyr who died in support of life Against the wiles of the evil one, You are better than him that Masturbates to waste the ***** Of life, God’s grand purpose of Them to be the first stations of life, You **** them, you commit ****** Genocide, massacre, macabre,
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Dec 13, 2016
Dec 13, 2016 at 7:58 AM UTC
She is a martyr that dies in labour
Khabele is an enemy from the spiritual world Debacularly rocking peace of people in my village My Hamlet, or my country, my continent or in my piety, He starkly hates anything human, especially the family, His tool box against human family is a composition Or dark Patchworks of opportunism, ethnicity, poverty, Fluidly disordered gender, abortion, **** diseases, war, Crude religion, divorce, self-pride, shallow thought, Infertility, love for money, laziness, corruption, Politicization, public indiscipline, self-idolatry, Shameless thievery, looting and gambling,
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Dec 12, 2016
Dec 12, 2016 at 5:15 AM UTC
KHABELE’S TOOL BOX