Synchronicity -
It means all of the events
flying, WHIZZING!, d-r-i-f-t-ing by us
as we ourselves float through the world
are related, connected, entangled,
and emerge from some kind of
divine symphony.

The sounds of laughter, tears dripping,
hearts BREAKING, SMASHING, SHATTERING,
the scraping knees crawling through the rubble,
hands SLAPPING TOGETHER as heads turn
towards heaven in prayer-

The warm embraces, -sighs- of comfort, lips smacking,
bodies pressing together in the hopes of being
reunified for a few moments, the glances,
the poems, the letters, the rings exchanged
and matching cemetery plots-

The triumphs, WOO-HOOS, celebrations,
toasts, clinking wine glasses, bottles, mugs
bumping fists, patting hands drumming
confidence into chests-

They are all supposed to be
one godly plan.
Like high notes, tragic sonatas
and joyous fingers plucking
heavens strings into
gracious cords and
silent pauses between tracks
are all one concert that we're conducting.

But doesn't it all feel so fragile?
One broken instrument, one
distracted player, one missing page in
your play book, a hand swished too hard,
eyes-too-penetrating or overly
aggressive dismissal of your
prized pianist
and the whole orchestra
falls into chaos.

What's it mean? What was that lyric?
What key is it in? What is the right tempo?
Do I emphasize the earthy drums that provide stability?
Do I drag you along on a magical carpet ride of echoing
falsettos, throats tugged like the handle-strings
drawing across my violin eyes on an exciting journey?

Or do I sink into the minor keys of my pain-
Songs that I don't share, playing on headphones
now I want to blast them, sob them out, sing them in whispers
at first, let them grow in me like my apathy, swell into tumors of
fear, and hurt and eat me from the inside out!

I want to shout songs of suffering. Have my piano keys
spin you into my anxiety, guitars raising the key like water rising
one floor at a time in the Titanic that is my beating heart.

I want to watch the drummers sweat as they beat out the rage
of having my most precious friends, objects and opportunities
snatched away - over and over - despite the progressive movements.

I want to draw you back into my finale with my fear. It will have to be so disturbing that each note raises hairs on your neck. When I drop my baton, leaves you with my night terrors - so foreign from the concert I'm playing that I'll need

electric guitars, wild wind instruments, theramin and a chorus of sirens and banshees to scare you back into your seat. Songs inspired by fear, pain and sadness, anxiety and misery are all you'll find at this concert. Songs that make bowing an act of submission and never respect or adoration. My forums lack fan clubs. Covers of my songs don't exist.

Please - leave your hearts at the door. Chances are that fate,
the ultimate conductor, will rip me out of this black-and-white
universe that traps me like a suit made from
straightjacket fibers, anyhow. Because life, no matter how unified they tell you it is, LIFE doesn't get remastered. There is no deluxe version, b-side, or re-recording.

No one can auto-tune my words. The dangerous, raging guitar solos of insults and fury that have wrecked
all of the men who really cared at one point.
The friends who survived the mounting anxiety of watching me
skip like a CD in the broken walkmen we had as kids. Sorry! Sorry! Sorry! I meant to! Mean-! Mea! Meant, Meant, Meant, Meant <silence>, SLAM "Meant to call you,"

Or maybe ([SARCASM] IF YOU'RE LUCKY!) you'll hear track 4. I'll sing, "I need your help!", "Wow, *****, just come over!", "This *****!", "I didn't mean it", "Don't get like this again!". Against the anxious, building, manic tones, my panick blares while "I'm not good enough", "Can't do that", "my disease makes that hard", "Do you like me?", "**** this!!!" blares like an infernal choir pressing you to madness.

See, human symphonies aren't coherent - music theory isn't a predictive corpus. Experience shows that you can't make it come together. Too often, we don't get any rehearsal time. The death dirges that have stolen away my family, one at a time, creeping up from a silent, whispering stocatto'd-doom drown out any of the romantic, epic harpsichord solos that I still only dream of.

The angry, head-banging, 'where's that mosh-pit for grown-up children with kneepads?' beats don't motivate me anymore. They break down the walls to the studios where I was writing expert concertos. The earthquake-like blasts of my self-loathing fear have already torn down too much sound-proofing and the record studio collapsed because noone had the credentials to get in. My only dance consists of turning off the lights and yanking up the covers. Being a one-hint wonder isn't happening. Then again, can you blame me for not stopping? I don't pass this after I hit it.

In the end, the musicians don't always show up. It's like, - We've all been to that concert. Ya know, where everyone feels the awkward energy of a 4th grade Christmas Carol musical? Where, the costumes weren't convincing. Of course neither were the conductor's falsehoods, lies, omissions, or the promise that you'd enjoy this show. Cover art, like my critic's ratings, just don't do me justice . "Smart, engaging, relatable" the new listener's proclamation that "I'm falling in love! I can't get enough!" are marketing gimicks that just don't last.

Synchronicity, like destiny, has revealed itself to me as a fantasy. Reality's crumpling threads don't always find their way into skilled weaver's hands.  These strings have all snapped. In the end, I'm left smashing drums with trombones, crying over the rusted saxophones that can't croon for other hearts anymore. Just wait, my closing number is a Celine-Dion covered effort to stay afloat in the monsoon that I've been summoning for over a decade. When everyone leaves my audience, the program is either left behind or taken only by the weirdos who resonate with this kind of tortuous tune

I end each night walking the aisles of my darkened auditorium-soul now. I like to follow the echo and chase "coulda!" "woulda!" shadows across walls. I find your ticket stubs and nostalgia pulls me away from the dimming lights. In the end though, I can't counter the reviews that my show has no point. The tragedy isn't teaching any lesson and the cacophonies I birth don't generate fans. Plus, requests for autographs have become suicide invitations for an artist who can't release a polished track.

Synchronicity:A word invented and popularized by psychologist Dr. Carl Jung in the 1950s.  We all no better now that this is not a word that exists. Yet, the potential leads us all to chase after seasont tickets.

Synchronicity, defined as the false hope that it all means something. Synchronicity, the hope that you'll get to be the big strand in something special. Synchronicity - the promise of a heavenly choir, or divine symphony; of course we've already fallen from grace too often to question our unfulfillment. Sync-ro-nic-it-eeeee, like an old worn-out cassette tape, rarely comes with the equipment and support needed to hear it. Synchronicity - The jagged, little red pill that I can't take. Synronicity: the seemingly fate-driven world that we all stop believing in when the silence sets in.

Synchronicity: a series of seemingly random events that promise you a long night of unsurpassed concert sound. At least it's not alcohol I'm left lacking

Synchronicity, the artists that't leaves us entangled in distractions. Like scratched soundtracks. Synchronicity: the band I quit that has since left me wishing for buttons:

Pause. Stop. Repeat. Shuffle. Fast-Forward? Rewind!.....
..... Skip.

...................Eject.

A contortionist achieves ******
Her ******* saluting her lips
From within an envelope of pleasure
Causing local beatitude
Though one may query such enthusiasm
Her ******* cooing mollifying concert
Waltzing against the hips of autumn temptation
That she was vibrant
Or that she was barren
Or that in artistry
This plausible microsecond
The happening of dawn quite imminent
And a canary perched upon a fence
Lavish us with falsettos
Each and every organism throughout the universe
Itself just below its conception
And love equalizes the balance

hard-wood rocking-horse
between thighs of porcelain white.
sweat drips, rhythmic oscillation
of bones that ferrociously grind.

salty, soft, sweet-wine lips;
heavy, humid, breath of steam.
closed-eyes search for surrender,  
and signs of admitted defeat.

hymns of pleasure-ridden-falsettos echo;
eruptive moans reverberate in diaphragms;
trapped in throats, restricted groans
fight their way out of closed mouths.

tearing through flesh
arrows find their targets:
bombarded zones left unguarded
are continually pillaged without regret.

hard-wood rocking-horse
still ****** between thighs
of ruined statues of goddesses
made of porcelain, so white.

When I first saw you, I don't know what I thought. Your hair was straight, and your bangs swooped to one side mearly covering the corner of your eye. You were talkative, clearly not my type. And yet, we held engaging conversations for 3 hours. I had forgotten your name, but I thought it would be nice for you to be my friend anyway.

Time passed and you opened my mind up to a lot of things, like not settling too young. You said you wanted me, and yet would not give me such a committing title as to say Girlfriend. I pushed you to like me. I was in such awe of you.

You were talented. I encouraged all of your successes. But I didn't see your true talent. You were talented in other ways that were malicious.
You were with two women. You were out with me by day, and talking with her at night. Confused about which one you liked more.

But it wasn't even about which of us you liked more. It was a game of chase. You waited to see which one of us would run after you the most.

Even after you gave me the long awaited title, you didn't tell me reasons you liked me other than the fact that I had won. Like you were some big prize at a carnival I had wasted all of my tickets on all the games trying to win a version of you. The version I thought was cool, and a version I could adore.

I wouldn't say it was a facade, or an illusion, or an illustration in my head. The version of you was real, but it was simply not the only version.

Some nine months later, you had declared a new version of yourself. One you said was better than all the others. One you claimed was going to be the final one. I had to grieve for the old ones, but had to accept the new one quicker.
I went to all of your appointments. Every doctor you had visited. Helped you develop your voice. Encouraged you when you got discouraged. And yet I was so discouraged.

You buried yourself. In other people, and in other things, never turning to look at me. I was helping you find your voice yet your voice would never speak to me directly. There was always someone else you rather talk to.

I found my solice in a few other people, too. When you took notice, that voice i never heard towards me, would suddenly boom into my ear as a loud sob. Also admitting all of your promises to me would be lies.

I was a Villan now. Untrustworthy. But had you not done the same? Wasn't it you who started it? Had it become another game?

I'd like to think I got good at the game, however I was still playing by your rules, and you were still the ruler. I had tried to cut the strings many times but you were still my puppeteer.

As I slept with one eye open, expecting you to scream at me in the dead of night- as you often did- I wondered, was this a new version of you, or was this your true version all along? Was this who you were when I met you? Was the adoration I had for you since the start...delusion?

You scream and you sob, and yet I can't hear you anymore. Your voice was hoarse and strained, and had becoming nothing more than white noise like rain on my metaphorical window sill. All the rain- the sobbing, and I still couldn't sleep.

I started to hear voices in an empty room. Angels? Hallucinations. You had encouraged I take a sip of alcohol, but the sip turned into bottles, routinely. And yet I still couldn't sleep.

I felt nothing. Absolutely nothing. I grabbed a knife I had stowed in my pocket, just to see if I could still feel such human pain. As the blade mearly touched my skin I wondered, how deep could I go? Now a scar I carry with me for the rest of my life.

Maybe you were my hallucination. Every bad day, bad experience I had in a person. I feel like it was training. Training me for the types of people I might encounter in my lifetime. Teaching me how to solve such a problem.

Did God give you the right for such an act? Such false promises and falsettos? I still cannot think of a reason for all that I endured. And will continue to search for one.

Sing me a song.
Sing of days of folly.
Sing it sad...
Sing it as it is.
Sing its story.

Extend each syllable
into mournful vibratos.
Drown the
crests of choruses
with wrenching falsettos.

Let it be soft...
But sharp as a knife is keen.
Let it reach into my chest.
And grab at the lull in between.

So sing me a song.
Sing to me how I failed.
Serve me my sadness.
Sing to me...
My tale.

It must be the music talking,
but i think I'm falling in love with you
I think its the way the falsettos got me swinging
the way the altos got me singing
I cant help but fall in love with you

The soprano told me about you
With it's sweet scandalous tune
Then the bass caught wind
hummed a few bars ,and told me your name

And I guess the band heard too,
Must've whispered to you
Because the harmonies playing my head
trying to convince me, your falling in love with me too.

Fractured melodies distorting my view
Of that once blissful Augenblick of me and you
Crumbling arias began slipping through
Those once solid walls that I've let shelter so few

These dizzying rhythms that still seem brand new
Keep pulsing like blood, both red and deep blue
Nerve wrecking crescendos swelled as it grew
And like my dead spirit in warmer winds flew

Harmonics with depth shimmer like dew
That lingered that morning like some stagnant clue
Falsettos faltered and tried to stay true
Hoping to remind me of things I once knew

Those things I once knew....

That thing I once knew...

Not fact but not fiction...just simply you...

(In Honour of Prof. Buchi Emecheta)


For the joy of consciousness
I read you countless
I smelt your grievance  
I felt your episodes  
Scenes and synopsis
you took from the stages to the pages.

Sussed from a bitter side of womanhood
A world growing wild like tendrils
To be or not to be;
Africa must have been accursed
Smuggled through the ditch of venoms
by her neighbours.

The voice of the voiceless second-class citizens
Ọnyèbụchi Emèchetá
..You lit a candle
In the dark room of dejection and whispers
..You broke the silence and spoke loudly;
that even the heavens could hear you.

To the ring that betrays the fist
..the sheep that bleeds by the sword of its shepherd
To the dreams that were murdered in cold-blood
The falsettos that misrepresent womanhood
..and the narratives that quells Africanism
You spoke!!!


© A. O. Nwulia Literary Diary 2017

A Discourse on Aerophane Eunomia  9/24/2024

The preterition of bionomically viable mackintoshes perdurable by vivat credenda whorling around catacoustic furor that attempts to array the constellation of all grievances deciphered by compassionate governance is dependent upon the following stipulations and statutes. Primarily, a catadioptric houndstooth complex bionomic superorganism demands a gradgrind dompteuse of psephology (as a stark underestimate of nasute observers primarily overlooked by swingometers) trying to zizel lurdans by vaccimulgent fracedos and forfex haecceity contingencies of nimiety with pushful forcipation at the behest of quokkas affright at amphiscian afterclaps amberjacking dontolesque heydays imperiously governed by interlucation using interfluvian omphalism unreeving humanistic altruism (a tentative renegadism) in spinescent palzogony roiling in salebrosity with bastardized semelparous progeny gorgonizing the polydipsia of pickthank tantony to nebulist algedonic overdrive backfired in mackintosh vulcanization implodent upon portfire calculated to appease a fetishized odontalgia inculcated into modish broadcloth visiogenic maquettes of cultural deformation suddenly vogue with macroscian specters the subsultus of internecine nidifugous loimic periblebsis hobbling the weighage of kerygma better suited to cloistered gnotobiology rather than noisome cultural pettifoggery spooling in chorizont celsitude.

Wedelning qwersy sell-outs corralled by websters and coquelicot contecking compital moral clochards zealous for chryselephantine clavis disproportionate on shibboleths of jarabing jalousies adscripted by jarking foothot jellygraphs jerquing caballine jiggermasts by nasute opportunism attrite on incidental crepitated gerdoying stampedes culvertaging cynomorphic mavericks too nacreous to sustain nebelwerfer mechanomorphic negentropy more predictable as bezique betising for briquets of Sarvodaya finicky to proficuous nektons secondary to lagniappes of nembutsu the catalyst behind synclastic tympanies nettlesome because of elflock forestalled by ipesand nidamental to powellisation for pyretology forever percurrent as a heterodyne trigonometric variance of bounded vacillated voltinism of opaque sastruga henpecking somniation sparvering interpunction to specular umbrage sphacelated sussultatory suretyships for jansky and pulicide in ignivomous deputization of blunt obtuse iopterous conflagration fumigating ipecac into streamlined mechanization of ironmaster wallfish irriguous because of lucrative downtrodden evanescent brehon yet catalyzed by springboking resourcefulness joggling the jamdani into jockeyed cladogenesis intransigently isallobar (resolute in protection of ****** octodonts constituting the bellwethers of aleatory oryzivorous osmol insulating preterition) by chirking global solidarity even in subboreal disagreement with other countries

An oscitation of orrery often siamang in rumchunder rhotacism in celation contingent on shenango tatamae of shagreen nimbose compurgation of dashpot shibboleths of rheotaxis redemptive in the pleoinosis juddering the volplane porbeagle with tangible costive coy popocracy at the detriment of deplorable springhare rasters of tragelaph pseudo-paragons supernal in importunate thremmatology culled from goniometers of elective grillage for tachytelic gonfaloniers to punctuate the valedictory ****** of equity in equipoise suspended as a tantieme of conserved tectospheric terrella (harvested potential energy even when embezzled by chlamydate henchmen) manufactured by testudo uncial migraineurs toiling restlessly even in macroscian umbrage for gradate suffrage a piebald moonraker sphacelation of spurriers above murengers always cognizant of indignant plight but frowning on outright cultural temulentia of ultrageous cacodoxy becoming kuru. Paroxytone recadency of bosky boschveldt pantagruelian scabilonian whangams of pilloried pigeonholes slimmerbacking complex sociodynamic catastrophes abetted by worricrow paradigms obtenebrating cryptotype exists suboptimal because it is coauthored by nyejays gribbean against swoopstake individualism emergent into syndicalized mutualism (a talisman of tegular latticework moonshot telenergy capable of subverting core machinations by singular tentation of togated terpsichorean modifications to camaraderie in a woke-spun world’s sorority—responsible for torpefying virility—troating with lucriferous might yields compromise and efficacy when wed to chilgoza rather than epicene debasements while vouchsafing ambitious masculinity) such that the turncock on insight once clogged by mute ridottos now inundates trouvailles of subtle vastations gradately hedged from interramification to slowly disperse or become vecordy for huckabuck graft guilloched in defiance by skalded vorticism tediferous in contrarian polities orchestrated by chatelaine pedigree to sustain subsidiary alms for witwanton libertines despite such ergotall kilmarge of rancid flagstench purified by secular litotes

Simultaneously, wobbly but resolute mahouts--the mainpernors of scofflaw matachins trying to catamount caudle against elitism--try to obviate cecutiency to immiserate chelonian banderols cadging chevrotain empaths to nebulize matriotism in aimless vitiation of attempted negentropy by nivial centrism only to marvel at summative nolitions all wagered in bailivated wrox galvanized by baized serpentry seahogging zarzuela gamidolatry and out of the greatest cognitive dissonance hoggasters for killcow antithesis of hopsack pragmatica walloped by hotchpot howdah foumarts’ exhortations while flysch decimates their ranks as fitchew murage defaults such that political derricks are delegated to defeat quotidian dentagra even when prominent politician degage aunceled acclaim of asterism militant in pettifoggery despite jurymasted victory over the peccadillos undermining ashplant stulms (arrect in their own malversation) mainsail of rabid contumacy rather than valorous travail resurgent in chrestomathy.  

Tirociniums for timocracy aristarching arguted aretaics against Hakenkreuz and naïve espaliers bolted to boltrope epizoic determinism for witless alamort epilation of oreillet nidifugous inculcation of physiognomancy with improper brassage deskandent in perfunctory interpunction of punitive oneirocritism of radical jolkering innitency by backstay imbrication of aloof ivory-tower nihilism among perverse academic ranks illecebrous because of ichnited analysis of stemson immunifacience of scud by scrimure abandon drooling over picamar cirriped goblin treasures. The scrobiculous backlash of scumble shiding around in cat-lady garish gaudy falsettos betrothed to the superlunary concourse cooperative with silverskin sorbefacient psaphonic acceleration centrifugal from izzat operative in cultural umlaut because of unguicule embracery abroach of illicit pipelines of tubifacient graft sustained by the bonhomie of second-take absconce actinism enveloping the virgations of woke allegiance to afterclaps of alcahest  which underscores the forefront posture intermediary to alexia is a resurgent aphthong of thoughtless consumerist ploys of plashy diatribes against apologetic kerygma swaddling apotropaic aggiornamento above fraying braying jackals of religious aporia preferring the exhilarated wharfinger hobohemia to the muntjac sublimation of all entelechy synclastic towards plurennial pleimorphy for societal phoniatrics to great fanfare and amelioration of the dirigisme by guarded abraxas pergolas so decisive they collectively are both the antecedent catalyst and consequential afterbirth to high-ticket onerous pandation.

The vulpecular zayat zoppa of downtrodden crestfallen haustellum of substandard binary hawseholes become dogcarts to sophomoric banderols specious to tanquams of tantony gaslighted by dupion to either be dipnoous in endeavor (self-consciously dishonest about oppositive support for detraque) or emphatic about declasse enfranchisement darkled by the devastating prospect that authenticity invites anathema from every cordwainer obliged to sustain humane compassion deadeyed by radioactive daws of misguided quasi-astragal autecology . Taradiddles of cruelty wagered in provocative acropathy deserve alpenstocker magnanimity because of invaluable munificence in forever keystoned enhancement of allemande noospheres revalorized into burgeoned tympany and vivid nembutsu earned on the suffrage of the aloof frogmarch hobbled by martingale aegis livid by the contumacy of pretext debaucheries invented by vulpecular Idiocracy to engender the source of the vehement neurergic aspersions ultimately the ultimatum of circular sockdolagers of laborious acequia accolent only to abscissas few others could interdigitate for eventual appeasement of cordial exoteric aspiration of demassified eunomia heartfelt to attune the escaliers of recourse to invest in prosodemic eclaircise that oystercatchers overlocked against the isovol by defeating the froward isorithms of egestuous bannock will enhance nisus and oikonisus simultaneously in a world already famished of fertility in farsighted alacrity committed to the nuclear family. Thus, we need a polyphiloprogenitive growth engine to camber and calver rejuvenated moralism and redoubled enlightenment to jurymast integral noetic virtues establishing paragons of jannock wroth in success woonerfing rectitude in meliorism that refrains from anti-Americanism rather than stultifying the whole system for the mazut of killcow wragapole samara squintifegos spuddling on antebellum travesty and premodern areneidan illiteracy the sastruga of typhonic pessimism better obrogated by reform than reiterated in vandalized scaffmasters so prepossessed by scarfskin acciptrine atrocities it forgets to marvel at our stepwise progression of wondrous cosmic dilatometry piggybacking sidereal lugsails propinquities prize in ephemeral mensuration of holobenthic time at loss with the joss of kismet zazzy in foudroyant entelechy as the clepsydra bleeds festination because of polyacoustic gezellig quesited as the ultimate wonderwork forever perplexed of and tantalized by the selfsame fate of pansophy.

With peaceful intent I extend the broadest bonhomie to repudiate miscegenated compaginations that seem surly, burlesque or menacing when in reality my words have variegated connotations that sprawl elaborate metaphors with maximum creativity sometimes overlooking subtle innuendos too brash to be authentically my asseverated intent

You told me you still loved him-
after everything he did to you
And i wanted to scream and cry
because that is absolutely insane
And hold you because i know it's hard
To let go of everything holding you down
And how easy it is to surrender to sadness
please, i don't want to see you drown
In depression and *** and falsettos
Of love.

But please baby.
I may not be able to hold you like he did
And i cant kiss away your demons
But i am here
And i love you.

Let me in and i swear, i will give you everything

Like faucets
Words stream
In falsettos
Voices scream

Shapes a man in the wind
Blows contradictions back and forth for him
Never letting voice reach falsettos
In expensive red stilettos
Coarse is namely the objective here
Stupidity loves obscure
As we adhere