The Bleed

I faltered, I don’t know how
This was not the plan
I choked on the plot
A hacking cough assaulted me
Rattled through my rib-cage
Flecks of pain travelled from my lungs
Mottled my cupped hand
I bled

Bloody ink
Dried up and flew from me
But missed the sheets

I wrote
I scribbled
I dictated
I swyped
I hit send
But the pages of my drafts
Remained those
Never published…

Until now


A Small Ramble Between 11pm And Midnight

Tis 11pm and not a soul stirs
But the one who his phone presses
He knows not what he writes
Only that he must
Before the clock strike twelve

Fatigue weighs heavily upon his eyes
Another yawn escapes his lips
He scratches that itch on his leg
For only the umpteenth time

He would rather be doing several other things
Than tapping away on his phone

He feels clammy
His eyelids droop
His head and scalp flake
The effect of a visit to his barber
His imagination begins to roam
To the cool shower which awaits
The chance to finally splash water into the eye
Which has itched all evening long

And again, he is sure he would rather not be typing this

He glances down at the word count
And comes to the realisation
That before he began
He set no target
And so could end up typing only a hundred words
Or perhaps as much as ten times that

He bothers a little bit
About the subject of the post
And whether the readers will relate
But about the bloggers,
And the writers,
He is not concerned
For he knows beyond all doubt
That every writer feels this way sometimes

They would rather be elsewhere
Than here writing, which they love so much

For inspiration is priceless
And has us searching for it
Endlessly, daily,
Seeking its direction
But sometimes,
Much like now,
There will be none
And every writer has had to inspire themselves
By themselves

And so this is him trying

He has attained some length
Small as it might be
And with it,
He has acquired some satisfaction
Such that finally
All of a sudden
The things he fantasized about
Are now within reach

Which is why this ends
Oh so abruptly…

Psychedelic Words

Was leaving work drained the other day and was suddenly inspired to tweet some real emo ish. My homie, @afrothises does it a lot, tweeting stuff that makes you either go “Deep!” or “Hunh?!” So attempting to channel him, I spewed these forth. Going back and looking over them, it struck me that I could put them all together into one post and share on here. It’s not really poetry. Just a bunch of isolated thoughts, some from the same strain, others stand alone, that all came from the same place. Enjoy… if you can…

____________    ____________    ____________

Rabbit hole scurries and trippy delights that are disguised pain.

Head spins upon and within fluffy clouds which end up getting snuffed up. High.

Skidding in slow motion up steep hills with craggy edges, ungentle slopes and cliffs that gracefully fall away.

Floating just beneath the surface. Wallowing in dusty pixie hills.

Experiencing the well beneath the ocean. The sky within the clouds. The space under the hole. The peace upon the turmoil.

Coaxing these golden evidences of humanity out into existence. I am adamant. Lips and fingertips. They must be read.

I die. While living. Because what is life but the perpetual scrawl towards the end. The flourish. The climax.

Grovelling for more moreness. Such a life. Such is life.

No. Just no. Let it go. Let it go. Blow.

I miss it, you know? I do. You saw a lay, a glorious one. And yet, unlike me, missed the signs. Missed us all. Messed us all up.

Open up. Elaborate. Let the feelings run through your fingers, hit the floor and splatter upon your favourite shoes.

I am here now. You are not. What is reason, if it will not permit such magics to occur?

Free-falling straight through you. Crashing into the memories. Do the shards and the fragments blind you purposefully?

You see how I bandy these, don’t you? You realize how I pander my weary wares. Bandy the trade that is my tools. You see it?

Phantom Wanderer

Today, I have a friend guesting. Please, enjoy Nero’s poem…


Long, shapely legs so smooth
Stumbling blindly through a dim, scowling maze
The gentle curves of her bejewelled hips
See how they sway to every man’s rhythm
Parched, joyless soul, ever wandering
An angel seeking solace in Lucifer’s crimson arms
Mesmerized by his wicked ways, for reasons the gods delay to reveal
She is alive, yet too afraid to truly live, a mere phantom
Four drunken warrior-kings emerge from their own ashes:
Desperately, she attempts to appease them with more liquor and a glowing melody
Now night rests, bringing with it the all too familiar scent of sorrow
So she strums a sobbing tune on an old, worn guitar
Because sad songs offer her self-pity, that bitter-sweet nectar.
Breathe, Child.
Your journey is but a day old
Yet, relentlessly, you fight an elder’s battle
Weep, fair maiden, for your fear is like untamed winds
Propelling you to wage war with the veryhearts that love you
Tightly, your fingers bloodied, grasp your blunted sword
While you drift wearily across lonely seas
Fearing that perhaps loneliness will accompany you to death’s silent shore
Pray, tell me fair lady, are you Hephaestus incarnate?
That son of Olympus, who was a powerful god and yet a cripple?
Crippling fear and great courage- strange bedfellows residing in your heavy heart
Making you so fragile and so strong all at once
Who did this to you, golden girl?
Your insecurity so greatly taints your beautiful, shimmering soul
Now you’re trapped in a struggle to compensate for what you lack in beauty
As if the small breasts God gave you are a mistake that must be corrected.
Again, I ask, who did this to you?
Tonight, the phantom wanders yet again, in the dungeon that is its mind
Forlorn, it seeks a hidden path that stretches far into the open road
Searching for a light bright enough to lead her to the land of the wild and free
A land where her whispers will become happy screams
A land where her words will not be few
But all she finds is stinging darkness
So, with trembling resolve, she sets knife to wrist,
But her burning calls for help are quenched by Death’s ice-cold fingers.

– @iluvpinkblush


We lurch to one side
Jostled together irreverently
No complaints ensue
We are in a hurry
All fourteen of us

Bleary bloodshot eyes
Staring unseeing ahead
Dreams of a blissful sleep
Still taunting heavy eyelids
She dozes in the corner
He nods in agreement
His chin nestling into his chest warmly

Bang! Bang!!

They are startled awake
Glancing about in alarm
But only for a moment
The calm with which we stare ahead
Reassuring to the dozers
Who are soon nodding away again
To the rhythm of another round
Of backfire

Our nostrils come under siege
As a molue thunders past.
We seem oblivious
Having survived cheap perfume,
Body odour,
The dank lagoon below.
What’s a little,
or maybe a lot,
a whole lot
Of vehicle fumes and smoke?
Just another chorister
In the cacophony of scents
We seem oblivious

Swerve! Shaunt!
Heads knock together
This time around
Complaints ensue…
“Ah ah! Dreva, take it easy!”
“Jo, ma pa mi fun iya mi o!”
(Please, don’t kill me for my mother o)
“Dis man, wetin dey worry you?”
Deafness, it would seem
Seeing as our dreva’s only response
Is marshing the throttle again
We fall silent
We are in a hurry

We arrive
Spewed forth
From the belly of the rickety beast
Squeezing between and around
Other crawling beasts
Yellow and black
And a myriad other metallic colours
Mingling with the multitude of bustling people
Also in a hurry
Also bleary eyed and sleep deprived
Also dressed in much the same way
Trudging and lurching
To get swallowed yet again
By the bustle

A Million Pieces

Today, in the spirit of St. Valentine, some poetry.

Happy Valentine’s Day… Whatever that may mean to you…


  *     *     *

You broke my heart into a million pieces
Uncollatable by any form of indices
Could I be part of the collateral damage?
Or was I the target in the very first place
So savage, the way you tore me apart
After to you I entirely yielded my heart
From the start you could have never claimed you loved me
Instead, you enchanted me with promises of milk and honey

Rent heart, fragmented soul, broken spirit
The apparent results of your visit
My Point Of View so young and restless
Reckless, my oversight far in excess
Until the scales were removed, unimpeded my vision
Full system upgrade, 40/40 precision
How could I see the wounds heal through my tears?
How could I feel the pain cease through my fears?

But the demolisher, it turns, out is also the potter
The butcher: the surgeon, but only after the slaughter
Made it all worse, ultimately to make it all better
As the potter put all the pieces back together
All done out of love purest, truest, deepest
Despite all of my flaws, you went and loved me first
And so took me apart to make me truly whole
How could I not see that, O lover of my soul?

You broke my heart into a million pieces
Recalibrated the matrix, rewrote the thesis
Refined the edges and smoothed the creases
And into me blew a million holy kisses…
I love you, Jesus

I am to Blame

Today is December 1st, another World Aids Day.
Today, a poem of sorts…


I am to blame
No doubt it is me who bears the shame,
The fragile frame that bears my name
Is the gain I lost in the game
The game of the dame, my dame the hurricane
The one that swept me away when she came

Most certainly
Put the blame on me
Who else would it be?
Me, definitely
Certainly not the other half of me
My baby, my one and only
To whom apparently
I’m one of many
The only mystery seems to be
How I could have been so full of gullibility
My sensibilities lost in shows of virility
The endless possibilities ending my sterility
My positivity in reality a negativity

I’ve got HIV

But na my fault
Say my baby no better pass pillar of salt?
Say for only a bottle of malt
My baby fit follow you enter cot
Enter cloth, comot cloth
Baby dey floss
But of course for her mind she no be slut
Jejely she just bin dey carry her cross
True, true no be her fault

True, true na me be the mugu
Who knew?
To be truthful, it could be you too
What! You think. Impossible
It’s unimaginable
You’re too true, too good, too cool
You’re too schooled, too beautiful, too faithful
The chances, too minuscule
You’re not that gullible
In other words you’re saying I’m the fool

In other words you are saying I must deserve this
I must have earned this mark on this black list
Me and a million faceless babies
Whose this fate is
Me and several ladies
Who really wanted to encounter their rapists
Mine and a thousand cases
Of mistakes in the basics
Of blood transfusions and infusions
Medical non-vestigations
Tiny incisions in barbers’ salons
And tinier ones still in nursing stations

We are unfortunate preys of chance
Victims of circumstance
Some caught in battle stance, some in victory dance
Others in a seemingly inconsequential instant
Of happenstance
At the speed of a glance
We lost all chance
But one: we are still humans

No less…

This may seem like just fantasy
May only tickle your fancy
I’m no Clancy
But if you look closely enough,
You can see
The clarity, the irony
The fictional reality,
The truth is no candy, it’s candid
Tragic, almost slap-stick
But not quite
Quite sick

Someone says ‘Don’t discriminate’
But disgrace relays the phrase
All priorities misplaced
We escalate the case
Sure, “AIDS no dey show for face”
Except the one that castigates
Yours in this case

So am I to blame?
Should I hang my head in shame?
What difference does it make
When all the same
I hear your eyes saying
With that much disdain

I am to blame