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In Africa,
We love our pap.
And My Love,
My joy,
is watching you,
enjoy it.

Just as I enjoy making it for you
and sharing it with you.
I feed you.
Keep you nourished.
Rich.

I do all this,
for my personal pleasure.
A way I share my love.

I wear light, breathing fabric,
Vibrant Ankara kissing my skin
after I’ve taken my bath.
I want to be comfortable
and cool.

In Africa,
The summers come in the winter too.
T h e    d a y s    a r e    l o n g
nights
are
too
short.

This meal-
Pap?
Make it the way you want
and when you want.
Serve this anytime.

In the morning.
In the afternoon or at night.
Have it at teatime.
As a snack at times.
For those sunny summer days.
And winter sunny days.
This meal is even better
on those rainy days,
And on those stormy nights.
Things work differently,
in Africa.

Something about pap,
takes me through t                                 i m e

seasons

and emotions.
Pulling people together.
A shared joy. A shared pleasure,
that fills you full.

Our love, fills me full.
I over-
f
l
o
w

When I think of pap,
I think of mud huts.
Deliciously Caked,
needing attention,
devotion,
fidelity.
Like our love.

Mud huts breathe
and are enthralled
by the air’s hot and cold.
They change temperature,
With the atmosphere.
High
and
                



low
As you Love,
you change me hot,
And then cold. High,


                                              



                                                       low.

What I like most, about pap,
is all the t                                                    i m e
and e. f. f. o. r. t.
You MUST, pour in.
for a simple and hearty meal.
You’ve got to ease in.
Relax.
Attentive.
Be a little playful
for a sweet end.

First,
You prepare the maize.
Like a maze,
you want to get to the right spot.
So it hits the right spot.
So, condition well,
intake and clean.
Then condition,
steam…
and flake.
dry and grind.

This Love,
Is play·uhng.
Cooking is a fun thing.

Now the making:
You need wood for fire.
Sit-near,   not too close.
You’ll hold your palms out,
a tease.
And check the temperature.
Feel it.
Is it a good hot?

Now, water.
Lots of water,
Into the ***.
Pour it in.



                                 LIFT
With both hands

                                            the ***.
Put the ***
On FIRE!
Let it heat UP.

Listen…

Boil.
bubble,
Boil.

With measure
without rushing.
Use your hands,
scoop up some maize.
Add a pinch of salt.
Mix with a fork.
For the lumps and humps.

Blend and bend.
Bend and blend.
Blend and bend.

Prepare with wooden spoon.
Don’t be too gentle –
whisk it vigorously -
Not too vigorously.
It must be done right.
So, it all comes-together.
At the right time.

One.

Tend the fire,
Throughout.
Keep heat at medium.
Let it    b   r   e   a  t   h   e   .
Take the lid off.

Now watch.
Spoon and bend.
And watch.
Press and fold.
And watch.
Close-flatten
And watch

This is how you make pap.
Made with love.

When
smooth and thick,
To the touch.
It’s ready.

It must hold its shape,
be moulded.
Without crumbling.
To be sure,
Take a wooden spoon,
and flatten against the ***.

Serve it hot,
With some stew, meat or some sausage.
When you're feeling sweet?
Add butter, sugar, and milk instead.

Before you eat.
I give you water
for your hands.
I pour the water.
Wash your hands.
I kiss your face,
and your hands
You kiss mine.

In ceremony,
before consummation,
Two parts laced.
We touch
tenderly.
We smile.
We serve each other.
We share - EXUBERANTLY.

Aroused by the aroma.
The flavour.
Savour.
How delightful.
The smell of love.
The taste.
Eat.

You know it tastes better
when you use your hands.
You’ll enjoy it more.

Use your right hand
to pinch
a small portion
of the pap
and roll it into a ball.
Over
and
Over.

Work it.
Use your fingers.
Scoop up sauce,
Or meat with the pap.
Roll it together,
Back and forth,
round and round.

Get worked up.
All worked up.
Play with it.
Enjoy it.

A meal that you can play with.
Play with your hands.
Feel the texture.
A little messy.
It's okay.
You can use a spoon too,
When you're feeling serious.

We share this meal together.
We look into each other's eyes.
I look at you.
You look at me.

Sometimes we share in silent breaths.

Our silence –
interrupted by giggles,
a sound of pleasure
or delight.
Or passionate talk.

All I know, Love,
Is when you enjoy this meal,
I want to be close.
I want you close too,
As I enjoy mine.

We can enjoy it on the floor,
Or the table.
With the walls up.
Or outside,
Under the view of the stars.
With the windows open
or closed.
As long as it's us.

I lay near,
something to quench your thirst.
Some hot tea, or a cool drink.
When you’re done,
You exhale –
“Aaaah!”

Full.
Warm.
Fulfilled.
no longer thirsty.
Our favourite meal.
A poem about preparing pap for your Love.
Stephen Knox Oct 3
This that I speak of, I'm tasked with to tell.
I'll speak not of heaven, or even of hell.

This that we are, it flows all the same.
Connecting together, creating this game.

From when we are young, disconnection begins
Informing us that, things we're doing are sins.

Keeping us blinded, and hiding the truth.
Starts with the programming, aimed at our youth.

Crafted idea's, masked in their sound.
Invading our psyche, since ****** was around.

Start seeing cracks in this matrix they built.
It's Falling apart, as the world starts to tilt.

DNA consciousness, propels who you are.
Synched to every aspect, be it near or from far.

Direct connection to everything, this body won't accept.
Digging deep, right through yourself, finding all you've kept.

Life is a solo journey, to find your way to one.
Enjoy your life, and remember that, it's only just begun.
abyss Sep 16
Ash and bones,
lightning and fire —
I lie in a battlefield,
covered with corpses.

No swords.
No guns.
Just my hands
and my war cry.

Battling myself,
battling the world.

The corpses begin to rise.
Ash and bones —
they stare at me,
and I stare back.

In the battlefield of my mind,
I face the bodies
of every version of me
that had to die.
I feel like I’m dying and being reborn over and over. So much is changing inside and I can’t keep up. Maybe one of these days, I will get to the final corpse.
Zelda Sep 13
She fell from
where possibilities linger beyond,
ruby and gold—

Weaving soldiers into tapestries,
heads low, fists clenched,
she whispers hope,
a symphony between the threads.

Bodies sink,
forgotten in the tide;

She gathers what remains,
a lantern for wandering souls
across the cosmic river.

Never knew such a lady, I did—
waltzing between realms, she did,
sparks trailing behind...

Yes, that is what
a lady does best—
shine.

Met her a few years ago—
Lady in Red.
Written February 2, 2024
Rewritten Septembre 11,2025
Published September 13, 2025
Akari Sep 7
if I've scattered like star dust
just to glow in your sky
Maybe- that too
is a kind of becoming.
She left Reno
in a satin slip
the color of hot coins
pouring from slots,
wearing chewed-up tennis shoes,
mirrors multiplying her,
the marquee burning out
letter by letter,
a hush pressed between her teeth
as if saving the last note.

I followed,
a gangly shadow,
mother’s voice in my ear:
life is not a freeway exit.
But she was the exit.
She drove west
through a glittering throat.

In Tonopah she was a waitress
with red stains on her wrists,
the sleeves tugged low,
coffee pouring thin as blood.
In Barstow she was a sun-bleached Madonna,
halo blistered, mouth lit in stained glass.
At a gas station in Needles
she shimmered into a coyote’s shadow
and slipped behind the pumps.
Everywhere,
a new disguise,
a flicker at the edge of vision.
Not the whole leap,
just rehearsal.

Casinos blinked like electric relics.
Truckers called her sugar,
greedy hands counting her ribs
as if she were a paycheck
sweating in their fist,
but she slipped away each time,
her silhouette already moulting-
a serpent skin, a smoke-trail,
a saint’s shadow burning off the wall.

By Malibu the night
had softened to velvet.
The pier at Zuma
leaned into the Pacific
like a broken rib.

She sang once-
low, cracked, unfinished-
let the slip fall off her
like the last lie.

Her body cut into the dark tide,
this time there was no disguise.

I waded in after her,
ankles bruised by rock.
The sea lit with jellyfish,
not lanterns but wires,
each pulse a warning,
each glow a wound.

Standing at the highway’s end-
no exit left,
just the Pacific’s mouth
closing around her.
Entry: recovery and renewal- route: Black Rock Desert to Zuma
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