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His name is Louksur; He is the chief of Lodwar,
His chiefdom is in Africa, in the state of Kenya,
In the savannah belt of Turkana, in Lodwar
He is the rich of the richest in Africa,
His house is full of food and wealth,
Wealth and fortune flow into his house,
The way waters of river Turkwell flow
Into the glorious lake of Turkana.

He has a matchlessly beautiful wife,
He bought her as a slave from the Jews of Ethiopia,
He unlike other African chiefs has only one wife,
He loves her with entirety of his heart,
All he has belongs to her and no question,
He is an uxory who is timorously uxorious
And the love for his wife suffers no pinch of temerary.

His son has a big wedge shaped head, he looks as none,
In his line of ancestors, and foremen of the Turkanai,
As they mostly have ball rounded head and small eyes,
Their eyes are small, an adaptation to ward off desert flies,
No forgetting the flying sand that can pinch those with wide eyeballs,
When the Turkanai elders queried the origin of enigmatic shape,
That reigns the wedge shaped head of the prince, son of Louksur,
Chief talked it away with wisdom of those who are in love,
That the head of my son his only uxorial, it is genetics of the mother,
My dear wife Adome, to whom I will give my scepter of power.

Chief Louksur’s love for his wife went higher as he aged,
As in the same tandem, beauty of his wife Adome, peaked,
The chief loved her that he resolved not to have any ***,
With Adome from then henceforth, lest she becomes *****,
Chief mused and resolved within himself against *** with Adome,
As ***** of his testicles along with sweat would only vilify Adome,
Adome began wondering why her famed beauty is not sexually provoking her husband,
She thought chief Louksur is using his powers to play *** with other women in the bush
She began hating a husband who suffers from uxoriosness, better a sexually active brute.

One time in the wee of the night, Adome told chief Louksur that she feels like *******,
Chief offered to give her security, but she declined,
she said she was more safe when left  alone,
As it was not a month for Pokots or Merile cattle rustlers, moreover, there was a full moon
She went out into the night alone, leaving the chief in the inner chamber, in blankets,
She did not **** anywhere; neither was she feeling like to ****
It was only a stunt to make her come out for a treat of love,
With Sialo, the manservant from Bukusuland, who sleeps alone in the shack,
At the far end of the compound in the chief’s homestead,
She knocked once and Sialo opened the  wickwork of reeds
forming a  shutter of the door to the servant's ,
She whispered to him ; I have come as we talked, he welcomed her
With a warm, silent and electrified volley of affectionate kisses,
She almost fainted, due to intense compassion from the servant,
They undressed and did it twice, to her maximum satisfaction,
She even laxed to go back to the inner chamber, where chief was,
Instead began fondling and fidgeting playfully with Sialo's ***** *****,
She had never seen a circumcised *****, forget of a gelded Carmel,
She had only been zero-grassed to chief’s uncircumcised ****,
She married the chief when she was a ****** of fourteen years,
Sialo’s ***** was miraculously stiff and rigid, sharp like a beckon,
In its tremendous position of guest for more work love,
Adome was pressing it aside on the thigh of Sialo, it slipped back,
Often to go back to its ***** position, she screamed and giggled,
On each stroke of her experiment, she flitted as she screamed,
Sialo lying on his back, enjoying soft touch of Adome,
As chief was peeping through the hole in wick-work of the door,
At the moonlighted experiments of Adome with Sialo’s *****,
He had his rusty gun on his shoulders, as he peeped with angst,
He resolved not to lose Adome to the servant
He better lose her to death, but not the servant,
And that’s how chief became an uxoricide.
James Nigh Nov 2011
i’m not afraid of blood and guts
but am of the notion of separation
perspicacity’s domain is under my shoe
where adoration once lived
but it was late on the rent.

the doubts recede back into the ontology they sprang from
a paradox not unlike verbiage and emotion
tied together with razor wire and feathers.

i’m playing a hand of poker
where the cards are made of shame, disgust and jealousy.
the king’s looking at the queen with disdain
and furrowed eyebrows
he plans on uxoricide in her sleep.
it’s her fault for not saying “good night"
when i drew a pair of aces.
the jack and the joker are plotting raiding the medicine cabinet tonight.

but chemicals have failed us.
everything has.

we only find solace in the prayers of children
and the rain.

comforts that we once cherished
now have sharp teeth
and will lacerate you
before the sun sets.

a sick kind of lycanthropy
turns ex-lovers’ blood
into gasoline.
but we still sat on the porch and drank it
as solar flares bounced off our hips
and turned altruists into hypocrites
sweet, honest mistresses into liars
and vegetarians into fire eaters.

not much of a difference, you say?
well, the jacks have turned on one another.
it’s a battle of epic proportions
and the queen woke up just in time to slay the king.

the kingdom is in chaos.
while we weren’t looking
the peddlers turned into cannibals
and the priests now feast on peace
and tranquility.

a young, beautiful maiden
asked me to dance in the street
but i said it was too loud.

our imaginary children have been forsaken
by forgotten gods
and the beautiful music we were going to dance to
is just static.

was it always this way?
maybe we were just blinded by wanton hopes and long abandoned desires.

or maybe the king really killed the queen.

it’s darker now
and the sheep have turned in.
so have the cats and dogs and birds and plants.

but i’m still playing poker
and the static fills my head
bereft of any plans of retreat.

pride is not without a mighty downfall
nor is confidence without cracks in the tinted glass.

we all fall down.
some just more than others.

but you can only dig your hole 6 feet until the dirt comes back on top
and sometimes you can never clean it from under your nails.
and it is sentient.
it patiently collects there for days, months, even years
until it decides to strike
enveloping and suffocating
in a whirlwind of pent up rage and violence.

the children are gone
the laughter is gone
and the joy too.
the birds are without song
and the trees are without leaves
and love does not stay.

she has given up the fight.

i walk to the window.
it’s pitch black
because there is no moon.
it has deserted me along with all my
friends, lovers, acquaintances and guardian angel.
i think they’re all at a bar
making jokes and laughing at my expense.

it’s absolute zero outside.
i’m insulated by bitterness, sarcasm and apathy.
the girls stay warm
in facades
of trust, loyalty and love.

i sit back down
to play another hand
but something happens.

the kings, queens and jacks
are whispering and conspiring
shifty eyes, toothy grins
and all.

as i flip through them,
they begin making small paper cuts on my fingertips.
it doesn’t bother me
at first
but before i know it
they are moving up my arms.
not pain, just stinging.

then i’m in a state of complete paralysis.
i can’t brush them off or run outside.
i’m laying on my back
on the floor.
every time i muster a laugh
they go deeper.

they’re at my shoulders now
working their way down
at a 45 degree angle.

i know where they’re headed.

i forgot my heart is by my knees
but they can smell it

they keep working down my body
and each cut hurts more.
by the time they get to my thighs
it’s excruciating.

i mentally scream
for a God
who isn’t there
but i have a plan.

two more seconds
and i will will my heart
to stop beating
my lungs to stop pumping.

i begin to fade out
and my last vision
is one of them
maniacally frenzied
and beating at each other
in the air.

then

just blackness.

the abyss is looking back at me
and it doesn’t like what it sees.

i have saved my perfect mistake for last.
Ensorcelé !
Heureux !
Imprimé dans mon fondement
De la marque indélébile
De ma diablesse
Marqué tel un zombie dans la fesse gauche
Marqué tel un zombie dans le blanc de l 'oeil gauche
Marqué tel un zombie dans le pied gauche
Du sceau de luxure
J 'ai juré allégeance à mon ange,
Ma soeur, ma mère, ma fille,
Mon épouse, ma reine, ma déesse.
Mon Ombre satanément fidèle,
J'ai signé un pacte avec Elle
Un pacte de non agression
Et de secours mutuel
Et ne comptez pas sur moi
Pour que je commette
Ni sororicide, ni matricide, ni infanticide
Ni uxoricide, ni régicide, ni déicide.
Ce ne serait que tentative de suicide,
Ombricide lâche, poltron
Voué à pendaison, géhenne,
Noyade et démembrement.
Ensorcelé !
Marabouté !
Morfoisé !
Vampirisé !
A d'autres les zombicides, les soukouyancides
Et chaque jour que ma Muse fait
J'honore de sa signature le chant du coq
Et la rosée sur le sang des coquelicots
Et le ballet des balais et des chapeaux pointus
Par delà les nuages comme des i accent circonflexe
Ou des parapluies ballottés par nos peurs archaïques.
Mark's lower colon tightened like he was Robert Young in the role of Dr. Marcus Welby with Consuelo at the reception desk & Dr. Steve Kiley on his trusty motorcycle riding in smooth & steady to assist the senior doctor. Mark's wife, Betty, was a wizened hag with nose-warts & bow-legs. She was from Italy and she was very unattractive. Mark hated her a lot and wanted to commit uxoricide which means wife-killing. If only he could get Betty on a look-out at the Grand Canyon – he could push her sorry *** over & get together with his true heart's desire – the mail man who was really a woman with a keen ****** & everything. Oh, the mail man's ****** must be the greatest one in the world! Mark would get so excited thinking about it – adding a second storey to it, plumbing it for a luxurious bathroom, papering it with exotic prints of naked Sumatran women with brown ******* – oh yes – he could do it if only Betty were not living anymore – lost in the Grand Canyon – eaten by giraffes. Betty's sister was **** too – mail man **** – and Mark wanted to hug & kiss her ****** forever along with the mail man. They could take turns. Anyway, dreaming will get you nowhere as it's actions that matter a million times more than Negroes do that's for sure. Betty pushed her ****** along the breeze-way, tired & sickly. Her knees were discolored from rug-burn. She missed Mark's loving vaginal attentiveness & she was very sorry for being from Italy. She dreamed of the mail man who was a woman and the icy-hearted lesbianism that makes America better than Toronto. Lovingly she removed her last ******. “If only Mark could see it,” she whispered into her ******. “He loved to pet you when we were alone with my sister sitting on the couch, eating hand-dipped ice cream cones covered in latex paint. Oh why did Ricky Nelson have to die? Why couldn't he have lived long enough to see Obama in a Texaco men's room whispering sweet-nothings to the ghost of Oscar Wilde?”

— The End —