deads Mr. Character
some where dead while lived
some people lived in case of their death
the same for all of us
but nothing has changed for they
they were deads Mr. Character

Indigenous knowledge and unwritten tradition
Ritual dances and pagan gods
She speaks to the deads
Heals the deepest wound
Whispers to the reindeers

But one day people with skins, the colour of snow, came
Untouched by her wisdom
Nothing she could do to stop them
The land was soiled
Purity went away

Between the din of dusk and dawn
Runs Sleepy Pillow Lane,
Where gators guard the Gates of Thorn
And cryptid creatures reign.

They glide across the midnight sky
Like grime in sanguine sewers;
White canines long and talons drawn
Spike rodents on a skewer.

Gray giants glare from full-moon eyes,
A ghastly ghoulish spell;
Sweet sleepers swell the wells of Nile
While centaurs swing the bell.

Horned vipers writhe into your fears
Like scythes through strangled weeds;
And severed heads of angel hair
From shouldered stumps relieved.

A putrid pile of newly-deads
Awaits the devil's scorn;
And legless maggots gorge in beds
From which the fly is born.

Hungry hyenas howl in packs
While circling carrions crow;
And chunks of flesh are torn from backs
Cracking bones bare below.

Scavengers feast on man and beast,
No rotting limb is spared;
From hanging tongues to napping feet
Blood splatters everywhere.

Brimstone and thunder fill the air
With hail presaging doom;
Ten toothless witches shriek and cheer
As zombies creep from tombs.

Masked mummies stalk with stakes and stones
In search of sleeping heads;
They crave the skulls and living bones
Of bodies slumped in bed.

Through R.E.M. you toss and turn
And roll on restless wheels;
Alas Red Rooster blows his horn
To end your grim ordeal....

~ P
(January, 2013)

There isn't much to be said
About the day time-
Hour after hour, we beat on
Against the ticking clock
Of complacency,
Until before we know it-
We're ****** into the realm of
The halfway living.
Awake past midnight,
Processing the happenings
Of 9-5,
As if draging them out into
Language
Will increase their potency.

There's nothing more moving
Than yesterday,
After a night of fermenting in
Our desperate minds.
Often too late to be felt
Before 10pm.

Reality is too much with us.
Pushing up against
Our trembling palms,
As we reach out
To ******
The manufactured idea of
Happiness. Prepackaged
And with an expiration date
Beyond the next year.

We try to find our fate in tarot cards,
Palm readings, grocery market bargains, expensive haircuts where they only take an inch off but you still cry, second rate ballets and strip clubs, the words of others, and Sunday services past 12 where the hangover isn't as dreadful.
Experience junkies,
****** fiends,
Attention addicts,
Compassion parasites,
We **** the marrow from the earth
And prescribe her with Ritalin
And 3 months of sick leave-
The placebo effect has never seemed
So enticing.

Is this what it's like to talk to God?
Newspapers from last week
Find their way into the warm,
Sticky floors of the subway:
They have no purpose here
In this cool, indifferent future.
Bold headlines prophesying drought,
And lamenting those already dead,
Alongside ads for half off
A large pizza, and 25% off your biggest
Problems. Classified ads
And the sports section
Reek of ***, failure
And vulnerability-
No one cares, now.
The past is only real within the proceeding hour,
And middle school history class lessons,
Too optimistic to hold
Any reality beyond repetition.

Lifeless, we seep through time until
The pages are soaked and soggy with
Our failed ambition and twice baked
Love stories that grossed a billion dollars
For the movie theaters, gas stations and diamond companies-
Condensed into romance novels
And nonfat ice cream:
A testament to a nation
Afraid to feel anything that isn't synthesized
And discussed in tabloid magazines.

Sideline poets and actors,
We rap our knuckles raw against the railing,
Nervously counting down the seconds
Until we will be called to dutifully recite
All we know.
Waiting, we count our blessings.
The cumulation of good deads and sacrifice
That have paid the dues for a one way ticket
To the promised land.
Little children, again,
We twist the frays of our sweaters
And buckle our knees with anticipation
Of judgement day
And Memorial Day weekend.

Was happy to see me floating,
little did I know I floated cause I was dead.

Jacob Ekirapa! who killed you?
Your body was found puddled,
In blood that oozed out behind your head,
In your car you slept humble as in life,
Gorged in a trench downslope Kanduyi,
You were smiling in death as you ever did in life
Mindless to the murderer’s lethal object that crushed
Your head from the nape, an early a shot to the realm of deads,

Your Life in Lodwar City was Godly and peaceful
Serving God via varsity teaching as service to mankind
You quarreled not but you ever oozed intellect,
The Turkana chicken that roosted in your hearth you never
Went foxy to un-feather, deep in purity, a godly conscience,
As colleagues and friends were on a pageant of amorous mighty,
In a rampage, chasing women, money and Tusker at costs possible
Within the range of snobbish freedom that Lodwar-heat allowed,
Then you beautifully pitched and harvested a job at home,

Only to work at home with vintage discipline,
Serving the County people, Bungoma of your birth,
Least in your ken that the owl is ogling at you
With the certain lust of death, it killed you whole-meal
As if it has never killed, as if it has never killed, as if...
Killing you was the apex of glory for those that fear a spark
Of talent, discipline, brilliance, ****** hygiene, generosity and
Technical competence in the nerves of a youth which you evinced,

Jacocb Ekirapa! Who killed you?  was it a man or a woman?
Did the Bukusu people **** you because you are son of a Teso?
Or the a Teso killed because you had a job and then becoming rich?
The accident theory was a smoke-screen, to throw us off-sleuth
You killer hides behind a stage managed crush of your new car,
God could have allowed dialogue between the dead and the living
For you to tell me the man who killed you, why he killed you and how,
You are a friend that death robbed me, leaving me in a lurch of full despair,
In this world that is full of gossipers, sadists, bigots, wrys, sardonics, waifs, saddos,
Thieves, stooges, copy-cats, tribalists, self-congratulators, killers, egotistic egoists,
Making me now a neurotic listologist, but all in all, your death hit me hard below my belt,
Like the lunch treat of full Tilapia and Ugali you often did to me in the Oasis of Lodwar town,

Life on earth is a precursor of death, and death a harbinger of eternity
An obvious quoith for the arrow of your soul, truly, amid the 24 elders of heaven,
An obvious station of your un-blemished soul, Godly defiance to the folly of your killers,
Stupid, imbecile, idiotic, buffoonish black Africans that killed you, their own Sun, educated son
They **** a milch-cow that saves them from kwashiorkor, marasmus and poverty, a black man is comfortable in despair of poverty where voodoo looms, but not in a clime where young-men are schooled, clean, educated, employed and rich-a promise of tomorrow,
They killed you but forgive them, they also killed Ken Saro Wiwa, Stephen Adongosi, Steve Biko, Martin Luther King, Jacob Juma, John Kituyi, Meshack Yebeyi, Dr. Masinde of Kanduyi-thence, they are like that, they **** their own solutions only to fall back into mire of poverty-these black idiots,

Maybe I'll write a poem
That totally rocks
Like maybe one about
Pick-up trucks
And good-old boys
Who drink and make noise
And ogle the girls that sashay by,
Leering and giving them the eye
For nothing but tosses of their heads,
Snarky sneers and icy "Drop deads".  
Or maybe I'll write of high society,
Given to extravagance more than to piety,
Dressed in their finest, parading the street,
Deferential to all, light on their feet,
Dancing through life toward their urns of ashes.  
Or maybe about old men wearing galoshes,
Smoking cigarettes in the snow,
Maybe there's more future in that:
Some things you never know.
Or maybe I should write about lovers and haters
Or apple pie and mashed potaters.
So many topics out there to choose:
The seasons, bananas, fantasies, the blues...
But maybe its not the subject you select
But how you present it that has the effect?

NOISE does unfair,
disturbs everywhere.
Even at workplace,
at home makes restless.
With only tortures and pains,
this noise makes no sense.

NOISE breaks focus,
annoys, irritates us.
Freezes our mind,
blowing noisy winds.
By giving only pains,
this noise makes no sense.

But,
NOISE of war,
shows end isn't far.
Noise of deads,
shows life's dark shades.
Showing our offense,
this noise makes sense.

We took a long drive down
To Jawbone Corner where
A flashing red light
Acts as a four-way
I'm with my girl, her driving,
Me delivering foreplay.

Down in the Valley where
You can be at rest or
You can be at play,
Newly Weds and nearly Deads,
Draft Dodgers from Yankee Ville
And my family lives there still.

Apple blossoms with
Their assualt to the senses,
All kinds of distractions,
Too many to mention.

A Sunday drive
That lasts all day,
Cape Blomington stands
Oh so tall,
You can get down
And forget about it all

As you coast in to town
And lay your money down
At the local pub,
Checking it all out
To see what's what
In the way of fun,
Where to next
Under the mid-day sun,
Where to next
Before we're all done.

Took a long drive down
To jawbone corner where
A flashing red light
Acts like four-way
I'm with my girl, her driving
Me delivering foreplay

Down in the Valley where
You can be at rest or you can be at play
Newly- weds and nearly-deads
Draft dodgers from Yankey-ville
And my family lives there still

Apple blossoms with
Their assault to the senses
All kinds of distractions
Too many to mention

A Sunday drive that lasts all day
Blomidon stands oh so tall
And you can forget about it all
As you coast in to town
And lay your money down
At the local pub checking it all out
To see in the way of fun
Just what can be found.


© 2012

Fate has choked on us
Our life driven by wind on monstrous sea
Conquered by our friendly foes
Invoking death and tears accompanied with plague
On our fatherland
.
Tonight, we bury our deads
For the they have joined our ancestors
Let us dress up our wounds for our visit
To the ancestors has been postponed
Let us sharpen our blades and smoothen our spears
For this is just our prologue
.
May fear not be the guest
But the gods in their very best
As we sit round the fireside,
May the gods ignite the fire inside
Sing! For this is the last dirge our lips would sing
Lay the young ones to sleep and sing them sweet lullabies
That they  may take shield in their tender dream
.
We fight back
Like Herculean with strength on
We write fate with ink on the clouds
Commanding death on our foes like rain on pastures
No one tell our story like us!
.
Balogun David Tolulope {drunk poet}
IG-@acedadrunk_poet
©️2017

What a perfect vision dancing on the water,
At least that’s what I heard
Nice to meet you and your daughter
No I won’t take her hand she’s not wearing any gloves
I don’t subscribe to plastic people
Because I’m a marble of a man
Take your diamonds and your silver
I would have **** on it anyway
Metal people shouldn’t be bought
There so unreliable
If I need something to love
Id buy a dog

Stimulate me, Make me Crazy
Please do something with my brain
Cuz if you can’t
I’ll buy some Mary Jane
Have a party
And **** your best friend all night long
You think your perfect
You daddy says your Pretty
Honestly I think you look like a cow
A stain glass windows
Is Still a window
When it comes crashing down

Is that your baby
Its ******* ugly
You should really go complain to the dad
So you say I’m and alcoholic
When I’ve just been ******* **** all night
Try and judge me
Cast a stone
That’s why the doctor gave you zanxe
People are a fickle thing
Always singing about ***
Honestly I could care less
Just leave your  underwear when you go

Rock my body, and My soul
Give me faith in mankind
Because I just snored some aderales
And rainbows are now my friends
You act like a sterling sculpture
When in reality your just a pile of rocks
A door is still a door
Even without the hinges

I see you
You see me
***** get out of the way
I have to keep up with the Jones’
Because I think there sons got it going on
Hay **** you still there
I thought I told you to leave

Red is my world, green is my heart
Its all really ******* anyway
Flowers are dyings
The worlds already deads
Lets just play ring around the rosie
Because after all
A worlds still a world
Without your “GOD”

My heart is broken
My soul is torn
My spirit has woken
My body all worn

My bones have shattered
My eyes are closed
The vultures have gathered
The deads aroused

My heart now bleeds
My soul deliberately shivers
My spirit helplessly feeds
On the flowing rivers

I was hated by many
Loved by few
I never owed a penny
But who knew

I was stabbed in the heart
On a cold drizzling night
Awfully broken apart
No, I wasn't in a fight

Left to die with so much pain
My life in complete vain
Dragged in the stormy rain
And shoved in a clogged drain...


©sim

You went back to the youth room
and you wondered
which whims did not let you get as far as you could
which fears and disappointments did not let you mark your own destination with your compass
It is not only one  Ithaca
not only one destination
why did not you come back like a ghost one night why you borrowed your dreams from the deads
Every night you hear the ship that sails
Why  you never search the sailor who longed to look with your eyes
and to measure the loneliness of the deep ocean
You went back to the youth room
and you wondered why you did not paint the path you deserved, but you let the boredom and the everydayness smother a small alley with a half-
an alley to walk
an alley to get lost ...

Thou shall outh thee
In midest of the foul three

MUTILATE THY HEADS! ((grinding teeth))
CUT THY JAWS! ((snorting))
BURY THY DEADS! ((heavy breaths))

Hereforth, followth my laws!!



©sim

I punish myself daily
to deny a god.
Do angels cry?
Pinning hope in a crisis to extract
the truth from a dying moon?
A ghost walks on the
wall to enter the alphabets
of living deads.
Ambrosia― was not
sufficient to resuscitate
a bleeding cross.
I am charting my life
for you to forget me.
Quasi-surrender. No never
I am just learning―
how to meet the death.
Another name of victory.

Ghosts are walking today.
Last night, misty rain fell upon the town.
On top of already soaking wet yellow leaves
that was plastered flat layer by layer-
like a yellow brick road. I walked on-
after work because biking was not an option-
in the wet air upon the wet road.
Where the road shone slick black,
Under the orange streetlight-
beneath the fading twilight, into the night.

Ghosts are marching today.
They pushed and shoved between the thin veil,
in forms of wind shrouded with orange decaying leaves.
They left dust trails, sidewalk cyclones, and-
Played mischief upon innocent walkers.
They crowded around and laid in wait,
until in groups they swamped and swayed.
As they passed by the disarrays,
with their fuzzy hats, thick coats and flying scarves,
they clutched their coat, just a little bit tighter-
and that’s enough I’m sure, to make deads smile.

Ghosts are parading today.
There was a halo behind the blanketing grey clouds-
that allowed a trickle of lights like diamonds fell into my eyes
and just for a moment in the corner of my eyes I saw:
a long crowd reflected by the golden light,
parading down the street, not caring for passing cars.
They carried a banner high up to the sky
and I squinted my eyes for a better look,
twisted my head back to catch another glimpse,
but with a blink of eyes, they were gone-
like the misty rain that fell last night.

Arise, O compatriots
Your father's land calls, obey
Your future generations calls, obey
Listen to the voice of hundreds calling

They all awaits, O compatriots
They all awaits your awakening
To take the lead and show them the true path
Will you sleep on, O compatriots?

If you failed, O compatriots
Then livings shall come with their deads
Singing to your hears, through clumsy voices
You failed us, O compatriots.

I assume my sins
my life, my deads
what I have left
it's more than a groan

I broke promises
I killed some hopes
walking winding roads
not defeated

My soul is not captive
shouts ,
laugh
and sometimes he cries.

My love still survives

The winds of the West will bring me peace