he asked me my country's future? And
             was startled I pointed to my smoking scars—
they are the path where I entered my pains.
                                                          ­                   I said.

my future wear prayers like sunglasses.

             we only show others what we want them to know                          
lying to ourselves, thinking out body is a single person.
            drowning in the arms of our potentials.

              he asked me my country's road
where the
past had tared for our journey
              through my eyes, he saw a fog future
linking only through to an un-motorable road —
              where museum of scars and blood
are the only vualable display antiquity
              and the violence a home where our beds are death
          
my country is a pregnant ******;
             whom everyone sleep with but no  one want her baby

we call people friends just to suit our purpose
            they are all fake because we are too. now i know.

don't **** yourself umar yogiza jr. don't die.
             your heart is not full, no one's heart is.
i cannot go round waiting to be loved
             everyone have themselves to love, and not enough.

The city walk, no one claim.
             the village I left, no one claim.
stranger at home and outside home
              all people care-for is their room.

yogiza, this city eat you like breakfast,
                                                      ­       yet you
               make your ancestral home stranger to feed you.

every eye on me is suspicion —now even mine.
               if you ask me where am i going? i don't know!
the past, present and future had been claimed
                i won't **** myself, i love you everybody i meet.
this is not my poem but yours. i want to smile.

children of death and settlement

by the tired, busy mouth
        of the evening;
where the only
        art is entering
you squat, bare
        in the corner of darkness
suffering and smiling;
        searching for the love
of another darkness
        there! i mistook you
for a lost shadow, for i let you go
let you go.

before now, i slept
        into the is same darkness
waiting to be ferry into tomorrow;
        thinking the large body
of retrospect past
        is immutable
but can't convince my pen
        that the only poetry in nigeria
is her present —messed-up
        by the same gone, ageless people
we revered, we have to let them go
        let them go.

into the red dark
        past nigeria, there
is a labyrinth tree
        whose ripe fruits are love
and poetry
        but was intentionally
neglected; we let it go, let it go.

looking through this tree
         i can see
into the future;
         above and beneath —
the ****** hatred
         of death and grave's
settlement, that we can't let it go, let it go.

gently —gently and gently
         i want to sink the deepest borehole
of poetry
        into this tasty period
where the only water is not
        only bullets; but
nepotism, tribalism
        neglecting naked reality
that brewed the wine that we can't let it go
let it go.

       the largest wound
in our hearts
       where the past bullets
pierced our comforts
        i want to heal it before i let it go, let it go.

i sauntered
        through this discomforting pain;
climbing through —
        the disagreements
betrayals, backbiting
        debaucheries and raw selfishness —
minds who don't want to let it go, let it go

i enter the past
        the way good poetry
entered the indolent
        through its untied roads and
whispering potholes
        with the hope
that not all nigerians are stupid
        through this silent
tired, busy mouth
        where the only poetry
is entering
        you must broad
your search;
        night is also an unemployed
graduate, wanting to let to go, let it go.

© umar yogiza jr
abuja, nigeria.

hook of comfort

Before your homely art, my mother.

                   I come mysteriously crisper outside my body.

Bait me after you; let us fish.
                   I left the hook I can't comprehend,
another watery grace there is drowning souls.

                   I am tired pretending to the future.
I can't swim.
Canoe me, I left my hope and desires.
                   Looking. Looking. Without seeing.

My brothers are scholars in the art of killing,
but unable to master how to bleach their hearts,

They are a book with cruel characters
                  sweet landscapes; going backward,
and dialogues that brain-drain its readers.
                  Characters that will dialogue you
out of reality into their perception;
                 till you eat your fingers taking it for spoon

they've kissed me with the lips of their hatreds
                   Till I resembled a sachet of weak love.

Till voids steep me and gross my hope.
If you are a drunker, better wine will bait you.

Downward

Beloved, touch me
                                 part|after|part downward
like rainfall.

I want you like how farmers want first rain.
                   I don't want to know where you start,
I just expect you in my body, to be wet.

                   lay kisses on my lips mild|into|mild
like turgid music into soul —
                               welcoming|expecting|gladly
                   like a delayed menstrual period.

let my clothes come off gently like prayers
                  fall my body into yours like devotion
research my body parts delicately —
|there is witful poetry between my legs|.

                  Research my body parts deep, deeply
Till your touches becomes a professor
                  Till I forget my mother and father
Till I forget death, paradise and hell
I am a dishless meal
                                   spoon is not welcome.

Betray every sadness in my body like Judas.
                   Come into my ocean
raincoat and swimming is not a requirement.

|there is witful poetry between my legs|.