"gluttonously" poems
all my life
i've been preparing faces
to meet the faces that
i've met
friends
family
the man who delivers newspapers
at our doorstep each morning
i've laughed at their silly jokes
as they tossed their heads from side to side
in naive stupidity and their sheer ignorance
a pompous lot, the human race i tell you
i've acknowledged their staunch morals
and tried to make them my own
as they scorned at the girl in a skimpy dress
and chewed on mutton bones gluttonously
all my life, i've been trying hard
to blend in
with people who've shown me
that i don't belong with them
and tonight when i shed gallons of tears
i have only my bed and pillow to share
i've learnt that my sadness
is my very own
Sep 5, 2018
Sep 5, 2018 at 2:30 PM UTC
Water of remembrance sprinkled
On the mountain crest of recollection.
Indulgent mussy memory catapulted
Stones of retentiveness into the
Courtyard of events like bricole
Of battles.
Pendulum of reminiscences swinging
On oscillating milage of roads like
Trotting horse with drippage of sweat
And itching foots.
Ghost of reminiscences restlessly
Roaming with carriage of yesteryear.
Final year educatees required
Boardinghouse,
But list of items engorged dear
Mother's treasury
"where do l raise money
to buy oyinbo mattress, Ilori?"
Mind pullulated with weariness.
Intonation of worries.
Cantillation of wants.
Deficiency of measured means.
Oyinbo mattress beyond ladder
Of reach.
Gluttonously waiting to devour
Lesser items,
But rays of compulsion unslammed
The gate of respite.
Lordly arrival warmly welcomed by
The dorm room's porter,
Walking majestically to the bed-space
With the acquired cotton wool and raffia leaves mattress.
Gamut of items passed through the eagle's eyes of the housemaster.
Silver painted pail donated by a neighbour passed through the sentry of inspection,
And got its admission.
Mother's used cloak turned bedsheets
Passed through the rigorous scrutiny.
Newly built portmanteau unlocked and neatly dissected, item by item.
Agazed eyes focused on the cotton wool and raffia leaves hand-made mattress.
Expectations rattled mumbling astonishment.
Legs stuck in the mud of mystification.
Telepathic dews covered ocean of thought.
Tranquil silence engulfed vicinity,
Deflating the balloon of hope like a litigant awaiting verdict from the jurist's chambers.
Porter's gesticulating gesture connoted nothingness of demeaning disapproval, perambulating on the hilly terrain of approval.
Akimbo stood l.
Now the verdict!
Molten volcanic magisterial command erupted in a gestapo gesture,
Spudding out from the barytone's baritone voice from the selfsame housemaster,
From the bastion of authority,
And the house generalissimo like a wild brant squalled, matter-of-factly,
"we do not accept bed bugs cotton wool and raffia leaves hand-made mattress here".
Entreaties collapsed.
Jan 11, 2019
Jan 11, 2019 at 1:30 AM UTC
drowned the Earth suddenly.
underneath honest light,
all
submerged. this cataract of feeling —
waters pursue beginnings. cradling them
to unknown ends, washed by the shore.
gluttonously the night swallowed
all — parliament of birds warble no longer.
midnight, the Moon
claws the supple skin of organized stone
displaced
where all the edges bloom
forth torrid froth of dappled light which kills no less than a brief life of matchflame. tenuous spar of wind on
the unserious twilight; bulge of death
in the stream — a body haul, rafting
in compost; stench of all topple like
resins held loose in vats. rat **** becomes
as inviting as moulding bread;
tantric music for no instrument, hoarse
cries unbeheld —
until the flesh no longer flounders
pressed against sleep-shaped youngness
hewn lissome in the hours of no succor,
modeling silence in the thrill of
this enthusiastic space,
hands scouring muddied
obscure, atremble,
shadowless hours fill stomachs with
the plump word of rescue yet none
of these fingers unwished the
ingenuity of dull gods — this twilight
nor twinight could ever grive
in forethought, striking bells to signal birds
to arrive again so we could feast
in silver fish, with bare hands scaled to callouses,
looking at it twice-over, this battered yolk
of whiteness, with deeds of the viridian
now atrill in new fragile woodworks
lurching and
ameliorating as we all
stutter and sing
haunts dabbing open
lips of small wounds that
wish to shut quietly, almost
every threat of gray or pummel of
wind startles the flyblown ornate,
hurrying us back to cornerless homes
where all photographs washed away,
very few hang
swayed by verdure
of the gradual throne of sea
curving perpetually the several stars
we have ignored for a while,
where everything quite begins
again to enthrall with a melodic
leitmotif of the most tender of
instances loose
in mouths
and in endless recall
breathless—
Nov 8, 2015
Nov 8, 2015 at 7:55 AM UTC
A nascent society gluttonously feeds
on the palingenesis of hyaline paragons
forged by stolid and archaic eremites.
A whilom friendship leaks a susurrus
of tristful regret,
while pernicious ***** maunder
puerile attacks on munificent
intellectuals who only wish to
augment risible souls and divagate
from vertiginous roads too often traveled.
Such a chimerical respect for tradition
is too rigid to be broken alone.
Jan 13, 2011
Jan 13, 2011 at 3:09 PM UTC
I feel no pity...No remorse, nor shame...As i put them to the stake...
Hanging them up by their necks... setting their bodies ablaze..Grinding their ashes between my fingers... before mixing them with my supper.
Am i depraved? Am i what remains.. when the blood of dreams have spilled out of me....
And the darkness took shape... giving birth to despair...
And with its birth amidst my blood and urine.....I also ********** all that humanized my soul.Such is the fate of the slaves....I feed of them to sustain myself a little longer...
A sad comfort i find within the tomb of my hollow shell...The rancid smell of their burning flesh brings me back to my inner battlefields..A fading flame of humanity has all but illuminate the way back...
Am I to be dragged upon the altar and submit myself to the thralls?I feel the lash carve open my flesh and tearing my muscle..Nothing but muzzle flashes as i faint from sight..
Awakening at the sight of flesh flies feasting on my festering wounds..I am consumed alive amidst the filth and dirt i left behind...And am exposed for the maggot i am on the inside....
My consciousness evaporates into the faint smell of burning flesh...
Drooling with ravenous hunger.. I gluttonously gorge myself and snarl at the hand that feeds me...Like the ghoul i am... I drool at the sight of the master throwing his dogs a bone...And if he wants me to roll over and play dead...I shall not doubt nor neglect....I will submit myself to his will.. and undergo the bereavement of my innocence.
Until I blossom like nightshade...and reach my full potential...
And i will be burned as incense and my ashes processed in a final supper for all to consume.
Jun 22, 2015
Jun 22, 2015 at 9:49 PM UTC
A nascent society gluttonously feeds
on the palingenesis of hyaline paragons
forged by stolid and archaic eremites.
A whilom friendship leaks a susurrus
of tristful regret,
while pernicious ***** maunder
puerile attacks on munificent
intellectuals who only wish to
augment risible souls and divagate
from vertiginous roads too often traveled.
Such a chimerical respect for tradition
is too rigid to be broken alone.
Jan 13, 2011
Jan 13, 2011 at 3:06 PM UTC
One moment of pride
Unmasked the disgraceful lust
Releasing the auto imposed sloth
Impetus envy and gluttony were the driving force
Unleashing the wrath hidden within
Greedily buried and contained
I became an outcast
A skeptical sinner
Forever to walk on my own
Condemned to eternal damnation
Unless I repent
But I am just a human
Envious of the wind that can flow and be
Proud of who I am
Lusting for freedom
Sloth to follow the rules
Gluttonously enjoying each jiffy
Reacting with rage to the auto impose limits
Avariciously living
I am a human
An unleashed dreamer
Fully living
Oct 18, 2010
Oct 18, 2010 at 6:01 AM UTC
If willing
Their belief
On almighty
To relinquish
And from
Their soul
For lucifer
Proffer
A special dish,
For a while,
Devil will not be
Unwilling to grant
Sorcery and occultism
Blindfolded fools
The financial bonanza
They gluttonously wish
Or an earthly pleasure
They die to relish.
But at the height of
Their self contentment,
With a stab on the back
With a sharp knife
Satan will ramshackle
his subject's life.
Devil could
Not be God
However hard
he play-acts
When approached
Ensconced on his abode.
Nov 3, 2015
Nov 3, 2015 at 2:07 AM UTC
You took everything
and returned to the scene
To take home some images of victory
and I knew too late what happend
Staring right into your eyes as the realization ended
All I could do was try to look anew
Attempting not to bleed right through
While I splashed about in shallow waters
I'll just have to learn how to go without
The shame in this game will never max out
and you left me there weeping
Sold me cutthroat trout
I ate it up
Gluttonously
Then spit out the bones of the person I used to be
She's so far from me
I ode to the quicksand beneath my feet
To the weasle who found a way into my keep
The racoon who robbed me so blind
and left me defiled morales
Now left behind and strung about
I graced him like a loser should
I fought but much too late I understood
Mar 15, 2013
Mar 15, 2013 at 3:52 PM UTC
You look at me
with those eyes
imploring
your soul
seeking
answers that experience can only answer.
Your hands search me
your hair hangs low, curling
and inviting. These times are
simple.
I love them, sinking
gluttonously too deep
to a place we both enjoy.
But then...
we come again
to your greedy eyes
probing deep within my
tender soul
wanting answers
to questions
no girl my age should know.
Oct 26, 2010
Oct 26, 2010 at 6:28 PM UTC
in the great history of commerce
there must have
at one point been a truck
load of milk mechanically suckled
by machines in chugging glugs
off bloated udders
and at the same point tons
of honey harvested industrially
from swarming workers
stored in vats
stacked at the back of some
huge juggernaut
pointing at each other at
the point of
gluttonously sputter speeding
on toward heft-hauling
highway impact -
and both drivers snapped
that freeze frame money shot -
them shattering
through to promised lands
of milk and honey
May 10, 2015
May 10, 2015 at 12:11 PM UTC
Like rain I fall down.
Drop after wet drop.
Yet within rhythm
I maintain
the pace of life.
Never skipping a beat.
Always on time.
I do as I am told by the dictator
Oh, obedient slave
feasting on fear and complex
gluttonously
Don’t provoke a storm.
Let the drops in
time beat,
creating
what only I can.
Jul 21, 2015
Jul 21, 2015 at 6:59 AM UTC
I do not write to enlighten others or to broadcast my own perspectives. I write neither to remember nor to be remembered. Writing is not my ambition; it is not my escape; it is not my hobby. It is my addiction. I write to stave the shakes and pains that plague me when I do not. Writing indulges the demon fighting inside me, that creature clawing eternally at the bars of my soul. Though I try obediently to contain its groanings, to sit quietly in the verbal single dimension of society, the need cannot be ignored indefinitely. Eventually I must concede, must let it claw and tear gluttonously until what was once blank sheet now bleeds my deepest and most lucid revelations. I know that when this purging is over I will be left hollow, pensive and raw, but once I have begun I can only continue viciously, can only drink the carnage that I pen and savor it on my tongue, gurgling and laughing. Each work I create strengthens the obsession and claims another share of my existence, so that I live shadow-like between writings, playing a half-hearted charade. Like every addict, I secretly pine for the day when the game will reach its peak – when finally my demon will emerge triumphantly, sword in hand, and leave my dry and useless body lying in a gummy puddle of deep red inspiration.
Feb 20, 2012
Feb 20, 2012 at 3:17 AM UTC
This was prompted by the wonderful The Queen Creative over at Wordpress.
From Wikipedia:
Honne and tatemae are Japanese words that describe the contrast between a person’s true feelings and desires (本音 honne?) and the behavior and opinions one displays in public (建前 tatemae?, lit. “façade”).
1. Sent Up For Good (Tatemae)
I’m a convincing stranger.
My Englishness pulls at my
Starched white collar.
My fingers,
So piano fine and buttoned down,
are little sticks of ivory.
My spittle mouth brushes away
indigo blushes
of spent ink
and my hair
has a perfect parting
separated by
a red pencil
in the morning.
A little gentleman in
Tom Brown tails,
Nervously buttering bread.
Hammy, clipped,
Knows it off by heart,
( Lucien tells me that
He plans to get a new suit made).
2. Sent Down For Bad (Honne)
In my Prince’s bedchamber
My Englishness pulls at his
Starched white collar.
My fingers,
Like white-wine and goose down,
Flick with the
little kicks of bribery.
My little mouth flushes
with overflowing gushes
Of his spent ink
And my hair
Has an imperfect parting
Which will be separated
By a red pencil in the morning.
A little temperamental man in
**** detail,
Gluttonously giving head.
Jammy lipped,
The School ****
(Lucien tells me that
he plans to **** a maid).
Sep 12, 2013
Sep 12, 2013 at 12:19 PM UTC
Innocence becomes more innocent once it is ruined
Once the fragile and immaculate has broken into a million pieces, is it truly recognized
As a limbo that was as beautiful as it was terrifying
Something so perfect it seemed as though all things were destined to break before it
A moment when the ground of the earth becomes the villain
Why would you do this to me? You ask
As the density of gaea stares back at you, poignant and all knowing
And when you have finally found solace in the bottom
When it seems all but impossible that you should fall further
The curse of time seems to swallow you whole
Bringing your shattered form to a hollow peace
Still; complacent in your new found pain
Surrounded by a void that lacks compassion
There are no victims here
Immediately the denial of truth
Denial of the fact that feeling overtakes reason
Replacing the knowledge that nature had put in you
About how very small and temporary everything is
Your broken biology still wrecked across identifiable anguish
And yet, you yearn for everything that hurts
Within the abyss, filled with both ending and infinite beginning
Only one constant remains; nothing
I want everything, here and now
I want everything so that I may never be fed this hurt again
Gluttonously we consume any and all remaining sensation
So that our new form, our new self, maybe be satiated
As it arrives, unwelcome, into this world
Eat, and fill
So that you may find normalcy in this new forsaken world
There is no me, there is no you
There is only the endless murderous maelstrom
Of life becoming unlife, and crawling its way back to the surface
Undermining and crusading all that has never felt pain
And as the innocent falls anew into the ever lasting caverns of hellscape
We are born anew
Destined to live and die a thousand deaths before our end truly comes
Predetermined to live by the inevitable
Tactfully designed to deceive, by any means, for as long as possible
Only then, having faced the grimness of truth
Are we completely human
Mar 25, 2016
Mar 25, 2016 at 12:43 AM UTC
Compassion is strongly tied to the drip of blood
As slowly both parties wound themselves to please the other
And as I lay sleepless
in the four sided realm where we mounted one another
You in my arms, smelling like the first scent of spring
Morose but full of life, weary but satisfied,
One by sight but apart upon closer inspection
Unsure of the ammunition used to slay tongue summoned monsters
Waiting to pounce the moment we split the earth and leave
Forced to bear the thirst til the day our soils grow forgetful
Concious that a grain is missing
But content enough that it not entertain its longing
Your hands bring warmth for as long as I could remember
Even now when the chasm grew more and more unreachable by light
As if it knew the moment we part today, is lost and can never be found again
Took matters into its own and gluttonously eats infinitely
To part without love does me justice
To have lost you to one who shares your soul
One who ignites the light in your eyes
and perhaps only in love can the absence of stolen objects
be filled as if they never left
Feb 27, 2016
Feb 27, 2016 at 8:50 AM UTC
#1
A dark September of the rising sun, lay it
Think on Nature’s belly, gaze to wide, and wide forget
All about the open, a shutter and a swelling,
As frost upon a filament, snapped and waving round
This cord could pluck amorous sound
Now it’s fat and dead vibration
Swallowed by Nature, her acoustics.
#2
He said I dreamt we made love on moss
Quickly his nature for it longs
Before and thence thereafter
Battered his own skull, the truncheon of those blast desires
All of their dreams, disillusioned by a rotting cream
Before he ate so gluttonously
And loath to think so freely.
#3
In the throes of such blanket miseries
He was a mountain climbing itself
Taillights seeking headlights
Middle of the line, seeking the end
Though this absolution of Dark September
Wretched and cold, has months as he miles
Towards the snow of Darkest November.
Sep 18, 2014
Sep 18, 2014 at 12:48 AM UTC
You look at me
with those eyes
imploring
your soul
seeking
answers that experience can only answer.
Your hands search me
your hair hangs low, curling
and inviting. These times are
simple.
I love them, sinking
gluttonously too deep
to a place we both enjoy.
But then...
we come again
to your greedy eyes
probing deep within my
tender soul
wanting answers
to questions
no girl my age should know.
Jun 11, 2013
Jun 11, 2013 at 2:22 PM UTC