"stenching" poems
Has he not been beared
From seas to streams
Marked with cutlasses and ashes
Forced to swallow cowries
Why would he not wear down his face?
Has he not been living
On his choiceless delicacy
Concoction of gmelina roots
And garlic sap
Why then would he smile?
Why would he dance?
The voilent drummers in his skull
Were pounding thier drums
Like groups of carpenters
Driving pieces of nails
Into a hardwood
Has he not been marched
Round the village on pant
Bearing a *** stained with dry hen's blood
And rotten bones and stenching earth
Why would he not dash out his wealth
To seek a neater heath?
Oct 26, 2013
Oct 26, 2013 at 6:45 PM UTC
We're all subjects of love
Subjects of fear and longing
living day by day
because -
Smiling at the right people,
vibing the wrong.
Everyone sings their own song
of their own love.
Fear and longing hide
in the inner parts.
I never wanted an ignorant melody
thickly articulated through a cloud of smoke,
tickling a beer glass
confused and stenching
because-
We all learned some manners as children
and knew they were true,
waving our banners of politeness,
mine red, yours blue.
Purple would be a royal colour
if we combined the two.
You're wrong.
I might be right
because-
all heads are "me" when they hit the pillow at night.
Feb 8, 2018
Feb 8, 2018 at 12:27 PM UTC
I spent five hours thinking about you, that day,
flipping through your pictures,
smiling at the letters
you never wrote for me but hoping that one day,
you might just draw the first alphabet of my name in a different style,
trying to figure out if my name rhymes with yours.
I smelled through the pages of the book
that has hidden notes about your eyes
and your smile in spaces between the lines
and shabbily scribbled dates
under the dog ears of the turn down page
that reminds me of the day
when you looked into my eyes for a second;
when your hands brushed against mine
and you didn't apologise for it
like you mostly did and,
when you told me that the closest
you had ever gone to someone
was by harming yourself.
And then,
there were moments
even after those hours when
I sneaked extra memories of you
from my subconscious and
laid it under the table lamp
like we did- under the blanket of the night sky,
squinting our eyes to search for the stars
amidst the silhouetted leaves.
I wrote letters to you,
I couldn't ever find an address to deliver it to
*because until the last time I met you,
I never realised I could be homesick for people too.*
Some nights,
I call you to ask you if you have ever loved someone,
if you have laughed just enough,
how deep have you been hurt,
how long will you wait till you belong to someone
and then, I just hang up before the dial tone goes off
because I am afraid you won't ask me the same
and even if you do,
I will end up liking you enough
to not let you go.
I know you won't say word after that
so, we will just sit there,
listening to each other's whiskey stenching breaths
over the telephone.
Oct 21, 2014
Oct 21, 2014 at 2:18 PM UTC
blue lilies
now;wilted and zapped
petals of hibiscuses;
frosting and drooping
pressed between our pages
stenching and staining
them edges
bleeding
the flesh stenches
the putrid blooms
carve squealing wounds
the blood engulfs the heart
that deliquesces
the crevices are graved
then the heart deliquesces
and falls into two
down/a rotting corpse
it oozes into
the disgust of existence
creeping through shredded layers
of shroud
covering the withering bones,
mass
and
emotions
searing
it melts eventually-the shroud
until it reaches the bones
crashes them there
spilling the liquids/
all that is left bare
is already atrophying
and i guess that's the difference between dying and rotting
dying at least leaves you
the voids to hold onto
to be nostalgic for what was held
dying-paints,hues from the ashes that blew
but rotting
eats away all that existed
and snaps leaving
detritus,stinking
odor that i need
the craft of us
all worn out
the fragments dis plumed through holocausts
the rebellion in ruination
and the twitched cold feet
each breath i've took,now smothering
you,me,and everything
the reflections,contradictions
intoxicating,caging charcoal abstracts
punctured and ruptured
all constituents consuming and decaying now
every treble
so heavy
freezing not frozen
perishing not lighter
maybe these moments
-they never stop
cause right there in the midst
everything rots.
-/and we let it
~d
Jul 27, 2018
Jul 27, 2018 at 10:52 PM UTC
he dug gold,
fresh out of her heart
until her bones were left shrivelling,
bericaded completely
by stenching coal.
her mines grow empty,
though he returns on a blue moon
in attemp to shovel out any last morsels.
clinging onto their cave by bare strength.
Apr 18, 2018
Apr 18, 2018 at 5:41 PM UTC
Imagery on a dead canvas
Miraculously the paint comes off
Stenching the room with sorrows from
Ordeal of sadness and sorrows this doesn’t feel
Real a endless loop melting away
Reality with the pigment falling off the art
Younger then love but too dumb post depression
Dec 26, 2018
Dec 26, 2018 at 4:51 AM UTC