The body is for life but only to die
then there is an exception not all is linear
there is a feminine rose after the death
for her no more death on Earth!
She was there before the first matter
it was in the making before her eyes.
The first and foremost luminary feminine
moved on heartily panning flawless flow
aligning into the finest angle of the first matter.
Across the nadir to the zenith
Fathima eyes on upon it as it comes to be
shaping and forming art of miracle:
One true masterpiece without a mirror!

Arts on the go Fathima moves on
praise be to the Lord she being made to measure
mathematically perfect by birth the pi is her!
(The pi tends to circle the blank space within is feminine
while the circumference of the circle is masculine)
She can budge equally in the shadow
in patternless pi decimals and in the open,
in integer and into a whole full number!

Hops up her first step she looks for ‘the all’
the complete whole the absolute one Allah.
Time and again she steps up but finds no floor
her measured step by default lays on 360-degree circles
and scans everything at the first go still finds no bottom!

The first luminary masculine peace be upon him
first looks in the open she takes the veiled angle.
Through the evermore pi decimal micro-hole
she looks on and witnesses the first matter a water drop
surfaces up without a base without a roof on top!
It follows through truly the copy of the original
softly springing around the serene water paints  
of all the maters to be created from this first drop.
Fathima looks at it and veils withdraws her reflection.
Little chip bottomless deep into the finest nature
Fathima instills countless Boolean gates making
access to her beyond digital and AI and conditional.

The sky hasn't yet forgot that follows suit
first, a star was born stepping in Fathima’s shoe.
It tried so did the full set of the galaxy only to disperse
into a profound constellation never finds the bottom.
Amidst this water circle floats the first soil
Allah called it His house that He first created from it.
Every planetary orb pilgrimage around it in the core
named the Ka’abah up to the heart of the earth it rose.

In the pre-designed world following the first masculine
Fathima the first feminine pilgrimaged around it
not in the open but strictly in the patternless pi veil.

Nature is never uneven on the hand of the uneven pi
every little fraction a small decimal counts connects to the dot showing and without showing a pattern
long live, long live the digital charisma is on the rise!

The sun rises and retraces back in the middle lane,
the black box scores at the end of the day it's only a dark chart!
The Moon is yet to moon over an unturned sublunary-dip
It pulls all, the mighty sea that the earth can't
and syncs into the feminine water cycle but save only one
with Fathima floating out of the box it can’t link up!

Like millions, ever wonder where Fathima’s grave is?
The earth strived too to the death bite to print her footprint!

The rush
The energy
The spark
It's flowing through me
Making me shiver
Feeling like I should turn around
But instead
I press my lips harder to hers
My hand
Behind her head
I strike through her hair
As only the stars as our witness
That for one moment
Our heart beat
Syncs
And we are one

I opened my eyes
I could feel the rush going through my body
The energy made me feel burned
Burned by love
Everything was here
Except her
All I could find that was left
Was one white feather

I returned to my bed
As I layed my head down
To hide my tears
Alone I cry
With one feather
Close to my heart

I'm waiting

He cries, tells her it's the last time.
Cherry lips and violet eyes,
She lies because she's so broken
She can't remember how it felt to be whole.
A boy too small to fight,
Though that doesn't stop him from trying;
A little girl who will never know that love doesn't include bruises and broken bones.
She could leave,
But she knows he'd find her as he has so many times,
Wandering the highway somewhere between the 5th and 9th time
She ponders whether it hurts worse to live or die.
Her baby in her arms and one trailing behind,
A shotgun aimed between her eyes,
She'll climb inside his old blue pickup truck,
Which is somehow colder than the October night.

She hears the whispers—
Illegal. Dependent. Brainless.
Can they not see their own reflection in her tired eyes
And realize that if the stars aligned differently,
They could have been the one wearing sweaters in the summer
And sunglasses in the grocery store?
As she pushes the shopping cart home,
She says a silent prayer that he'll be gone,
But he never is.
When her nose bleeds on the tile
She no longer cries,
Just syncs the pounding in her head with her heartbeat, screaming,
It's over. It's over. It's over. It's—

I promised myself that was the last poem about you.
But,
I've always been one of those people who
plays the same song on repeat
until it syncs with my heartbeat
and rattles my bones to dust.
or who
re-reads the same books until
the lines become my holy scripture,
the plot become my genesis and
my body becomes a canvas for a script I know by heart.
My head is filled with drafts for poems I've never written,
and hands I've never held.
I should blame it on courage but I blame it on you instead.
Maybe I'm just one of those people who
gives everything to one boy, forever.
Maybe he's just my routine,
like in the military.
Bright and early awake then straight to the battle field.
My body is adorned with marbled bruises
and crimson gunshot wounds
and when I rest for the night,
I'm shackled to a mattress of stone,
stained in the thick wine that pulses through my veins,
until the next morning,
when I must do it again.
The sunrise is my enemy.
She tugs at my eyelids
with raw fingernails each new day,
and I still fall asleep with
you as the only thing on my mind.

They say that you can't quit the army.
The cowards way out of a few wounds.
"Stay and it'll be a lifetime of glory".
And that's what he promises me.

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I know why it is called
"the small death".
When you lay spent
In my arms
After your heart
Has ceased its wondrous beat
And syncs with my own.
In these moments
While you are purely mine
I would scarcely believe
You were alive
If not for our heartbeats
Entwined.

with smoke tainted breath i sit and watch the night pass by
a silent guardian to watch my waking thoughts
the blinking traffic light tick tock ticks my life into pieces
a second hand reminder of the passing time flies
i reminisce on thoughts once alive and
create a late night fantasy in my mind
of life once lived to the fullest extent
only available in dreams brought on by death
the air is chill a cool reminder of the progressing season
where even the earth finds itself locked in throes of ecstasy
at the mere idea of change
the sky, towering sentinels that keep their eyes to the heavens
for any sign that this chaotic life will sink in calm waters
it smells like rain and the smell is sweet
caress my heart with a sense of longing as i create
this poem of cliche meaning
i live to love and love to live with lover in hand and
a night beneath the stars
only spoke about in hushed voices for song would break the spell
if this city wakes
i find myself asking the empty air for answers to these
dilema questions only meant for rhetorical ears
a writers lament
the cry of the mocking bird
syncs with the pass of a car
sweetly soft in a partners sigh
repetitive to most
these lips taste like honey and
my soul is free to wander to home
where you lay sleeping
safe and sound in the sea of mist
that separates the lost from the jealous eyes of unforgiving rest
a movement without meaning draws inspiration
for zen meditation
my coffee is getting cold

My heart syncs with the ticking clock
You stepped through, our eyes locked
Eyebrows raised, a signal gave and
all time stopped.

Help!
Call an ambulance!

Thank you for saving my life
For if you haven't called
9-1-1
I would of died.
For I eat too much
processed food!

A muse plays my harp
strings made of veins and thread,
cobblestones line over my body
having bric-a-bracs in the evening,

Rain splashes over shelves
and ego vapourizes like helium,
pyres burn my effigy tonight
stardust shines the bubble
tearing ashes like paper,

Warheads crack my halo from within
setting me up like the haze,
my lip syncs with the beats
dancing my limbs as it heeds away,

Clouds shower blessings upon my head
the chakra opens as if unbolted by wind,
clear conscience reigns inside me
and photos set us apart like fences .

She takes my breath away.
Don’t know if I can
Find the words to say:
My universe syncs up
Perfectly in her presence.
Interwoven, entwined.
Shared conception.
The atavistic mystics have
Prognosticated our destiny
Long before our
Past lives together.
Our kismet is written
On the stones of
Ancient cave walls.
Splashed across the flowing
Fields of desire.
In the depths of the ocean
Where only our love can survive.
Do not portend without knowledge
Of histories past.
A clear understanding
Beckoning my soul to revive.
As my universe begins to slow
And time comes to a whispering stop.
I notice your hand grasping mine,
Fingers interlocked.

On the other side
of my over  
                 thinking

I’ve come to realize I still have
more questions
                         than answers

The future feels just the same as
it did ten years ago when my now
was my future
                       then

Friends are more often
thought about
                       than visited

when later today turns into tomorrow
and tomorrow turns  
                                into this weekend
and then next weekend
once a month  
                        whenever you can

because time pushes us all into
this strange thing
                            called Life

and it’s full of all kinds of *******
designed to rob you of
your money
                    your sanity
                                       your time

but don’t let this discourage you
from greeting tomorrow
                                      with open arms

and a head full of more questions
than answers

The magic doesn’t seem
to happen as often,
but on the days it does

You have a good day at work,
you pay all the monthly bills on time,
your schedule syncs with an old
college friend and you meet for
coffee, or street tacos from a
local food trailer, or you shoot
pool and whiskey at a dive bar
early Saturday evening

and it feels like the old times again,
and you learn the things you did
were your first stumblings into
adulthood and even though they
sometimes change the way you walk
forever, it’s those times you discover
again when you start your third game
and the songs you queued on the jukebox
start playing and now that you can enjoy
the taste of good whiskey more than the
quantity of well, and all the loose fragments
of the memories we carry every day, left open
on the table in a journal with more strikeout
lines than unmolested phrases all become
complete with each corner pocket called
shot, each memory recalled and retold with
language alluding Greek Epics and Shakespearean
Tragedies,

It all starts to make more sense in ways
and stops making sense in others,

and the future is the same as it always was

some things
                    you can change,
some people
                    you can keep
some days
                  turn into weeks,
                  months, and years
                  trying to make sense
of what’s coming,
of what’s gone,
of just what, exactly,
                                we have now.

God has an iPod
that syncs prayers.
It's a miracle he ever gets to
listen to any.
But he does,
and over eternity
he has become a little more
deaf.
He even issued a new commandment:
Thou shalt pray louder.
Did you not get the memo?

Well, he can't turn up the volume anymore
so pray louder.
There's the memo.

But praying louder now
probably won't do much good.
He's deaf
and his headphones are busted
and- last time I checked-
he didn't leave any guidelines
for submitting prayers in writing.
Welp, I guess we're *******.

She changes the weather.

A day when parasols turn into umbrellas,
And when umbrellas turn into parasols.
Undulating thoughts on an undulating day,
When the weather syncs with the mood lulls.

Howling wind hurls at the cracks in the house,
Shrieking at the effort to keep standing strong.
Walls bowed, timbers shattered, beaten, out.
The shell remains, a home that doesn't belong.

Lashing rain on the pane of the pain.
Flooding the banks of the river eyes.
Only relenting to an apathetic dawn.
Left marooned on an island of lies.

she swore by her five inch heels
that the city lights ran through her veins.
her mother complained about
how she strutted through the doors smelling
like my neck.
i told my father about the way
she smiles when i call her “my little darling” in
cold hours of 2am when she rolls onto my shoulder.
i told my mother about how she rubs my spine with her paint-brush
fingers, hoping to turn my back into a starry night by
van gogh; she’s my shooting star.
her diaphragm syncs to the bass kick of “wanderlust”
and i think i fell in love with her adventure; it’s
not even the weekend yet.

she asked me about my past and the only thing i could tell her
was that the devil is paying me double to see you smile.

That moment where you stop feeling Everything,
Songs are just words,
Music is just sound,
you just listen without feeling it,
and it no more syncs with your heartbeats.

I used to sing a lot, used to lace pearls on flower petals
and the sea would sing to me. I have heard that my female body syncs
with the moon
that I am a tide, my mood is high my mood is low
                            I am a force of nature Mother Earth can hold.

The idea hits me. My heart is set on fire by it:
I am the reason some rocks are heart-shaped, my fluids
can create layers on ammolite.

Even my ***** could purify a pond,
I am earth I am water I am wind I am fire I am juice squeezed from
apples and orange peels
                    only the sun can gather my pulp.

I watch a father star cradle its firstborn
and we exhale on the same sky, I cannot believe it. We eat and drink
from the clouds -                          my clouds, our light.

The opal loves her body (she shines) the wind loves her body (swaying)
birds with fat bellies sing to me and
every one wiggles her ****
because she loves her body - why shouldn't I.
        (There could be pieces of me in everything beautiful).

It's 3 in the morning
My mind is racing
All I crave is someone's touch
Someone's skin against mine
The comfort of another's warmth and rhythmic breathes
To lay my head on their chest and listen to their heart beat
Until my breathing syncs with their every inhale
Every exhale
Simply at ease with my thoughts
And every worry subsided

The tip-less needle, dragging across my skin, blunt, like the madness of absinthe;

Relentless, jabbing at my brain, the voices echoing, telling me things of wonder;

Hallucinations of dullness, caring only of wonder, luminous, re-dead of pulse;

Walls melt, bold, engraved, proud, yet fruitless of sin, constant grin, the joy of absinthe;

Priest I have sinned, yet I enjoy it so much, that marvelous taste that somehow transforms;

Health, life, family, don’t matter anymore, I nod in joy, is addiction a bad thing?

The green liquid somehow turns to nothing, the smell, perfume-like;

Trickle down my throat, cold yet pleasant, I lay letting it reform my mind,

At the very least, I could say I don’t care about life, but I would be lying;

Absinthe is my only real friend, all those lifeless things out there, are they my friends?

Laying looking into the dull yet seemingly intricate blank wall of glass;

I look into the dead eyes of the green fairy, she lip-syncs what seems to be ‘Do it.’

Terror illuminates throughout my body, I lick my perfumed lips, wondering;

Darkness changes to white, the white changes to darkness;

My life is deep like the waters of deception in a toilet of misery and hate, spiraling downward into the septic tank of destruction;

Colours stand out, seem to glow like fireflies, my world seems to spin;

Voices seem to laugh and giggle, I join in, hoping they are laughing with me;
I am feeling the effects of the green fairy again, heavenly greatness descending upon my numb body;

The painter in Me
By Otuogbodor, Okeibunor

I paint not with brush strokes
On weary canvas
Nor with mesh colors
Darkening my concepts.
I paint using no tattered Coates
Expressing my pains
Nor with mute abstracting mixtures
Contradicting my designs.
I paint with words straighten in lines
Juxtaposing my world in humournic gospel.
I paint with lyrics n rhymes
Soothing the souls of my clime
Positing joy n laughter.
I paint with literally candor
Subjecting pains n sorrows
Mirroring my world in truth
My rhythms of love n peace
The only colors I know.
My language is succinct
Rendering sounds of blue n bliss
Greasing  humanity crave to live.
I plaint not with staled oil Coates
Staining the muse of creation.
I orchestrate my colours in word vibes
Thrusting my Visual syncs to heal
For I  cream my onions with ease
Printing my ego on black n white.
--------------------------------------------
Oh God bless this painter in me!

“I have been trying to get laid
So should I try lacing up my suspenders and get my *******,
for another fifty shades of drinking a Harlem shake to the
piece of cake fairy tale of nagging paper trail just to impress a **** pony tail
at the dark alley bakery, vending her own cookie with a tight shoulder skirt to this lions in search of an empire from a leverage  point to cleavage, Torching the alley with a naked thigh just like tossing a coin into a fountain in a circus with clown with umbrella about throw some shade until when the tides go out to, you get to know who’s been swimming naked upon the pleasures that are bitter to swallow to this blood ******* roaches chasing strangers who would spread her legs to the canvas and induce seduction as a color scheme……..
She called me sadist and I called myself a dreamer,
She dreamt of pushing me off the bed and calling me a screamer
She envisioned cutting my throat and playing jazz with my vocal chords
She fantasied sarcastically caressing my cuticles just because last night I came in short of breath

Previously
She would sell her own soul to the syringe of morphine drip
for a denial shot that pain heals in the prefix of an outpatient  rehab
now in the bathtub nursing in patient withdrawal ,
She would tie a shoe string around her bicep in search of vein,
so as to squeeze the **** libido version of limbo to oblivion
humiliating the dark clouds begging for a shooting star
to the pages that frustrates the pen unto the novel that prescribes a prenuptial of black bride killing the reader’s digest and buries their heads…………..so……………………

I am becoming a book.
that will induce an ****** with sympathy veil of beggar feeding on their own horses
to the end of the caterpillar misery is **** butterfly confetti to script that syncs the readers perception
Into the ****** abuses of the needle that impregnates the ink and tells the canvas to go get paternity test throughout the history of melting medusa lips
that made a homeless robin without a hood painting a revolution in this concrete jungle
where dreams are made up from silence thought that can
ambush a hive softy through whistling that melts
a bee’s temper in the presence of a queen is a poisonous sting of a artist
dipping his own brush into his own soul with a healing dew that never bruises
the honey in the vein of the garden is the beauty of the wine  
From a vine to flower is a grape in the glass is anarchy

From what I am running from
To misery flowing from the river on
That’s why we are here
To profile the lost identity from the art of war that sun Tzu was afraid of losing his head to another thigh!
That’s why we are here
To profile the slit of the dress that curved the sword another napoleon to conquer Soviet Union
That’s why we are here
To profile a love Ballard from contortionist that melted medusa eyes from cold to flexible
Revolution will wear a mini skirt, squat and kiss the lepers hands for the Benjamin’s banking dump jokes...and still hire Johnnie Cochran for second ****** trial of O.J Simpson ……………
That’s why I still want …………………………….



our culture wore a fabric of circus clothes only dance in the arena like a puppet from the strings of the servants chasing a redemption in the den of thrones getting thrown to the game of throne for guilty pleasure as kings daughters were gambling upon gladiators death to the freedom of escaping their own Sobibor that chopped off my foot in the life of Kunta Kinte
Slavery was blushing teeth with a **** moan of a cigarette smoke
Flirting to the horrors of unshaved groins,
from the growing pains in the hands that planted olive trees
to labor and harvest their oil that has become tears of
cowards staining heaven with obscene imagery of their own likeness
holding their insights captive upon the eyes of the ******
Until our backs were a canvas of whips and brutality, we had tattoos
of pain and graffiti of blood as written the book blue skies
claiming the prepare the way the Lord, judging Esther from a supremacy attire of poverty
termed to be isolated from the world where the corner stone fell into the wrong hands and built a
Tower of babel for the Pharisee living in a glass house



Earth has no sorrow that Heaven cannot heal to pleasure
the urges out of the Garden of Eden, Adam had to seek leaves to live with eve,
From a mustard seed renouncing the deception ought to praise the womb that gave birth to the blood sweat and tears to the system planting snares pig’s ears and fears ,
with intent to subdue the cat inside the bag from the smell of the rat that has been suffering a broken rib
We used ashes as lotion to conquer the scratching pains of the unhearing wounds eying the staff that turned into a serpent in exodus to the stiff neck of the system after the death of Moses….we had to succumb to victory,


There was a story of how soldiers got hungry
in the battlefield even they started feeding on themselves
Fighting for peace in the pieces of human meat...
upon pawns that have kept chasing the salvation of in the story that was
made by rats that fought all the dogs and killed the cats is like
Judging a fish with its own abilities to climb trees from the a shadow of small boy reflecting an elephant in the room with betrayal that made Julius have a seizure after gambling with another’s man
life with few pieces of silver sealed by a Judas kiss that killed Jesus,

She is doubtful for the
reason of the sky
the dark gather of clouds
filled with ghosts and rain

The heart is where the bleeding
Starts then trickles down her legs
These are the days
of the betrayal

When force becomes mightier
Than the need for beauty
When blood is spilt for a laugh
Like the eyes are not crevices for the soul

She is doubtful for the
reason of the sky
then lip-syncs to the future
of our demise

Have you ever stared at a flame
as she dances in a fireplace?
So chaotic, careless, and untame,
but her hips sway with pure grace?

Do you feel her raw powerful heat
filling the small room around you
as her rhythm syncs to your heartbeat
and your eyes glaze over from the view?

Watch her until she roars and grows
destroying what lay in her path
before she quietly dims and slows
leaving only ashes in the aftermath.

Each flicker and each spark
kiss inside the smoke filled brick.
She illuminates what hides in the dark
as she travels from stick to stick.

She can cauterize and sterilize
and she can even mend things.
Or she can light up your eyes
by burning palaces built for kings.

Breathe into me,
invigorating soul.
Your last breathe syncs with mine,
your pupils dance as the sun starts to shine.
You are alive.
You are with me.
You are beautiful.

planted a shovel on the ground
a scoop at a time, I like that sound
dug my own grave
living a life so safe
searching for an empty space
with tears streaming down my face
a place I can rest my wavering soul
this world is too cold

need people that don't need me
keep thinking "where is she?"
I can't convince myself to settle
and I keep dropping petals
they appear and say hello
they are truly mellow
I convince them I'm ok too easily
I smile like this too freely

this song is on repeat
my heart syncs this beat
to dance and weep is difficult
I won't stop though, it would insult
head butting makes it light
I'll do this all night
but dancing alone is rough
but I can smile tough
besides my hands are well held
two pockets below my belt

I'd pin you to a wall
my kiss would make time stall
your eyes would moan with every kiss
your smile could bring me such peace
your belly would never rest
your butterflies would be a fest
the nights would be romantic
naughty and so dramatic
the mornings would be the best
no sleep yet so much rest
eating food would be an adventure
could end in a hazard lecture
friend would turn to enemy
then friend to our family
all in good time
exciting like a crime
yet
I can't seem to get past hello
my daydreams remain hollow

loosing grip on reality
I can't seem to get clarity
want to stay dreaming
where my life is teeming
lucidity has gotten difficult
I can't seem to adult
I still have faith
while in the morning I bathe

the day will pass by
I am a busy guy
lots of distractions from you
no time to stay blue
but your face was burned there
even when I don't stare
everywhere I look
until I retire to my nook
then things get really bad
I laugh, it's way too sad

my pillow shrinks at every hug
my grasp might be too snug
my chest hollows when you are missing
the pain feels like its hissing
a shot to my head when you don't reply
every sound distracts my eye
I lied about having faith
I remember it when I bathe
but I am trying
while I'm crying
can't promise I will succeed
I continue to plead
with a convincing smile I look at you
but you have no clue
some of me will die soon
in me will be a large dune
if not all
I will fall
it seems I've dug my own grave
living a life so safe

you are only a dream
resting on top of wonderland
dancing with the waves
and salty kisses floating
in a sea of people

make my body a piece of your art
so you can put me on display
as one of your prized pieces
write me a song that syncs with
my heartbeats and connects
me to yours

you wrap your fingers around my heart
and shake me until i'm awake
you are only a dream

The pursuit of
oneness-
togetherness-
humanity-
is in the creation of something
for
everyone
and
everything.
the possibilities are endless
reach to where the individual creations intersect one another,
there you'll find a holy matrimony of pure unity.
the pulse that you feel when the ocean's current syncs with your heartbeat-
like the moon making love to the cave of your soul where you keep your chained desires of expression on hold for the moment when you finally feel the push of something that cannot be touched, seen, or controlled
free.
expression.

He's Behind Me.
I can feel his still face as he shows no expression.
His dark eyes focused to the back of my head.
His slow breathing as he syncs it with mine.
His cautious movement as he aligns it with mine.
He has no shame in what he does.
If I'm to turn he won't be there,
There will be no shape in all this darkness.
Silent horrors of loneliness or terrifying company.
He sees me when I can't see,
'See he knows me more than me.

He's Behind Me.
Although I Focus Not In His Presence,
Moments presented show me his existence.
He's not an object of illusion visualized only by my perception.
I think I know his purpose, it frightens the child in me nevertheless.
The brooding madness of my unstable state is clearly the blood he needs to drink.
He is not a shadow, that would belittle him,
He is more than that.

It only happens
every now and again
where you meet someone who
seems to be almost magical
like when your blinker syncs up
with the song you’re listening to on the radio.
It’s not necessarily fate but you
can't help but wonder
as to whether or not the two
were designed to go together.

Like blinkers and songs
the two weren’t made for each other
but happen to function independently
and just sound good when running in parallel
which is more than can be said
for a lot of the people I know
who are searching
endlessly
for the perfect accompanying beat
to their words while
ignoring
the symphonies within.

Atop a clear plastic
mountain box
random syncs
side with me
lying in bed
And we peers
through the murky
clear polymer
haze to see
reflections of us
Artefacts stored
in coffee cans
used empty
translucent existences
and by observing
transform our
historical objects
to Art permanence