I once ripped the petals off a flower.
At home,
I tried to rearrange them,
but something
was amiss.
I made a stem and leaves for it out of paper
I glued it onto a green cardboard,
carefully arranging the petals around
a yellow circle representing the anther.
But the flower was no more.
Ripped and ravished
it lay in the street.
Sep 10, 2019
Sep 10, 2019 at 3:36 AM UTC
Nights
brake
into dawns
rise
into mornings
rise
into days
fall
into evenings
fall
into nights
brake
into dawns
rise
into mornings
rise
into days
fall
into evenings
fall
into nights
brake.
Sep 10, 2019
Sep 10, 2019 at 3:33 AM UTC
I
don't really
feel like falling
out of summer
and into
fall.
Sep 10, 2019
Sep 10, 2019 at 3:27 AM UTC
When some man tells you
that you don’t’ belong here
and that you
should go back to where
you came from.
Go!
Take your soul back to Africa,
to Palestinian paradise.
Take it as far
back as
possible!
Go!
and call
upon your ancestral
Goddesses.
Call upon Dhat-Badan,
who is the wild goat,
sure-footedly roaming
craggy territory.
Who, in the middle
of the desert
of disdain
helps you find
an oasis
of respect.
Call upon Lilith,
who read
the devil’s face,
and walked away from him.
Same as she did
from
abandoned Adam,
who was ignorant towards
the devil’s dangers.
Call upon Oya,
whose natural passions,
curse up a storm
That makes men’s world
shake.
Who takes up her
sickle of truth
and cuts off
all rotten crops of corruption.
Take the upper hand,
trust your feet
and dance upon rainbows after a storm!
For that’s
where you
belong!
Sep 10, 2019
Sep 10, 2019 at 3:16 AM UTC
The ink has dried, so has the crimson stain,
Been washed away, where he lay on the floor.
The poet’s dead, but beat and flow remain.
The flood of bills, he tried to pay in vain.
What else to do than knock on ********* door?
The ink dried up, so has the crimson stain,
Upon his hand, which has caused so much pain
To rivals, addicts, family, many more
The poet’s dead, but beat and flow remain.
Free goes the officer, by whom he has been slain
No dope, no weapons on that day he bore,
And yet he’s dead, though beat and flow remain.
Forever over is our hood king’s reign,
But he left bars and verses, hoodlums’ lore.
The ink has dried, so has the crimson stain.
His songs forever linger in my brain
As does that bang, that shook me to the core.
The ink has dried, so has the crimson stain
The poet’s dead, but beat and flow remain.
Sep 10, 2019
Sep 10, 2019 at 3:13 AM UTC
Bananas
are such
sweet pieces
of fruit.
They are lean
and bend
to the weather.
But too soon, they wither
away.
Brown spots
upon their skin
soon turn
into dark spots
inside their vulnrable flesh.
I prefer
to be
an apple.
Round and shiny,
crunchy skin,
and sometimes sour.
But robust
and resistant
to rain.
Brown spots,
after a fall,
are simply
cut out
of their juicy, fresh flesh.
Sep 10, 2019
Sep 10, 2019 at 3:11 AM UTC
A string of strong
leather
torn off a dead animal’s bones,
holes punched into tender
skin at regular
intervals.
Holding my pants
in position
squeezing and quenching
my guts filled with
sedatives and hardship.
Holding on to hopes,
holding strong, holding on.
Will it hold my entire weight
when …
Sep 10, 2019
Sep 10, 2019 at 3:08 AM UTC
Robots
boot up each morning,
strap on their combat boots
and ride into the battle
of prattle.
Floods of wireless information burn
their wires, blow their fuses.
With fusions and acquisitions
they acquire higher
positions.
Detrimental turnover data talk turns
them over, upside down,
up and down the escalators
till they escalate,
deviate.
Spiked punch in one hand they punch
their boss in the face,
face trial, try
rehab: habitually helps reboot.
En route …
They learn that living without wires rocks,
they figure figures rock their world no more,
they shed their armor, breastplates, hard as rocks,
when inspiration comes knocking at their door.
They learn to cherish nature, the divine,
their limbs grow flesh where only metal dwelt,
so do their cheeks flash in a healthy shine
and from their lips a firy spell is spelt.
They sculpt and paint do yoga and restore,
their empty batteries, their fuses blown
they blow their money at the wellness store,
And finally, anew they find their own.
Afresh they get back home, where bills grew roots
they turn their router on, strap on
their combat boots.
Sep 10, 2019
Sep 10, 2019 at 3:06 AM UTC
When you were pushed into this world,
.tuo dellup I
When y’all tried to pull me out of the hood,
.sgurd dehsup I
When you asked me to push you on this swing,
Big Push’s car pulled up in our curb.
When Big Push pointed his gun at you,
.reggirt taht dellup I.
When Big Push dropped dead on our porch,
they pushed me into that dark, damp cell.
When I pushed myself back up,
.yawa dellup lla‘y.
y’all pushed me away.
Did I
hguorht llup ylno
to push
llup dna
an empty swing?
Sep 10, 2019
Sep 10, 2019 at 3:02 AM UTC
The cake is ruined!
The one I used to devour,
till my mouth and heart were filled
with ambrosial divinity.
I hardly remember what it was like
when it was fresh.
All I recall is
a faint smell
of red
and white.
a faint taste
of love
I put into some earlier version.
a faint touch
of the soft, sugary scent of cream
caressing my skin.
a faint sound
of sweet, savory syrup temptingly
calling my name.
But the bottle called louder.
And I drowned it,
in too much
liquor.
Now, all I can taste
is the stale cream,
abandoned for ages.
Now, all I can feel
is the hatred,
hatched from neglect.
Now, all I can see
is this green-and-white-eyed monster,
Staring back at me.
A reeking, rotten, moldy, mushy smush
Of mash,
its divine days long gone,
Ripe for the trash.
Sep 10, 2019
Sep 10, 2019 at 2:55 AM UTC