it is dark with you
I squint to see supernovas
on yellow stumps

the wispy silver ripples
fall the wrong way
nothing is left but
tobacco exoskeletons

you brood against velvet arms
sinking into the chair
the stone in your chest is heavy;
immune to April plumage
spilled nectar
and the smells before rain

Belated Cousin my Younger Cake gives
Forgive my Busy Bee to Greet you well
Since both we in Tune to the Yorker's, lives
Are what a few Dollars which I can sell
Now, how was your Day? Special as it seems
That the Early History our Links blur
Perhaps I was Young to sort out the Reams
Forgetting that Paper, Pink would occur
Overall, such a Worry-Wart I am
To think that you have Stones in my Basket
Realising that our Blood's Strength it can
Revive my Love's Story in your Pocket.
Greatly wish, Manang, my missed Uncle bears
Take his Candle; And put it in your hair.

Writing poetry is a lonely thing
It looks you square in the eyes, smiling
It asks you to write alone
Even in company
When writing poetry
You are alone

And even lonelier still
It asks you
To go inside of yourself
There are things there you must find

There is a man inside my body
A boy
And they look just like me
They each hold letters
I do not know what they say
I must find them

Poetry is love you want
Is someone you want to be in love with
Poetry is a child tugging at the pant-leg of someone
You want to be in love with

Poetry is the coffee stain on long sleeve shirts
Right over the wrist
Your mother called them chocolate stains
Never blood

Poetry is my drunk fingertip stumble
My white-boy wasted
My way of loving less awkward

Poetry is someone telling you they love your poetry
Poetry is loving someone for loving your poetry
Poetry is also kissing that person

There is a man
In mirrors he might be me
We have a letter we want to give to you
But they read like a feeling

We spend hours in solitude
Finding ways to step into the daylight

Poetry is convincing you
You need a reason to step into the daylight

There are words etched into your teeth
All white
No bling
The letters change with the shape of your mouth

Smile more often
Even when you don’t want to

Poetry is trying to teach you to speak peace
with the words in your smile
To people you don’t want to speak peace to

Poetry is an angry father
Is neck bruises from belt loops
Is rug-burn from being dragged across the floor

Poetry does not love you
It simply asks you
To find space inside of yourself
And then it wants you to give it to someone else

There are people inside of you
With stories

Writing poetry is a lonely thing
Giving it away
Until no one can be a thief to your soul

That too
Is poetry

Never like this.


It was never like this

The urgency in a Woman's kiss.

I think that the bedroom should be a forum

For a Woman to show a little decorum

But she just ripped off her gear

While I stood there in fear

And stood there I did

And I did as she bid.

It was never like this

But ooh this is bliss.

A day you never wanted to remember
A day you always wanted to get off your head
A day you got bullied right in front of your wife by people you are better than
A day you got demoted at work after putting your 120% to save your job
A day your kids were sent home because of school fees
A bad day
A day your wife asked you to sign a divorce paper after trying to be a faithful husband
A day your landlord served you a quit notice even as u tried to be a faithful tenant
A day you are called for a very lucrative job interview but you are in coma in the hospital
A bad day
A day you never wanted to remember
Bad day
A day you always want to get off your head
A bad day
A day you are kept in the mood of despondency
A bad day
A day you never wished for

Oh blasphemous beauty, how you cloud my judgement.
Your torturous soul engulfs me with
wisdom way to young and old,
for my tender age.

Your speculated claws drive me further and further,
away into the shallow pits of destiny and fate facing face.

Oh blasphemous beauty why do you torture me with,
your tender words and pitiful looks.
Your sorrowful glances are a pitchfork of loveliness.

Your bottled ego makes my rage as empty as
the shallow grave.
Oh Blasphemous beauty you are a woman
of magnificent void.

Cover of morning mist, treacheous
bring them face to face,
in the depth, green darkness of a forest.
A porcupine and a pangolin,
armed to the teeth,
ready to start a war at short notice,
both are not pleased to the least,
this encounter shouldn't have happened,
that thought crosses the minds of both,
the mist is the culprit,
but how do they know that?

If porcupine is equipped with missiles and lances,
pangolin is  protected with armour plates,
both come to understand, in a second,
they stare, with no emotions in display
sniffing the air for even the faintest of signals,
they stand still, rock like, take stock.

A spell of forest seize them, tell a few things
in soft whisper, that humans fails to listen always.
Nature tell them in quick time,
the secret equation of them, in this terrain-
in smells, sounds and a hundred myriad things.

Each one reads the other's face, watch expressions,
then, in a moment the prompt of the nature is clear
Voice of the forest speaks
"Don't waste the spikes, you need them later,
Fighting with a pangolin is a wild goose chase"
"Why fight porcupine, the ant kingdom awaits"
Porcupine and pangolin, listening to the voice of wisdom,
move away quick, as if hit by a lightening
the cover of the mist lends a clever helping hand.

I am not so sure that i can die. My death to you, to me, could be, just opening my eyes to another day, and everything is fine.

Time, it is an illusion of the mind, a projection of consumption for compliance to the sights bent in the light.

We cannot all defy the odds every time, but we do, pulling through the worse yet, and still on top, yet we elect to thank invisible men, but its us, it is you, it is me, embracing a dominant reality, where your only consciousness can be.

Every moment looping infinitely through eternity, now if only i could be, where i was happy.