I. My memoryis a myriad of shadows, dark wailing shadows—
A thousand needles hide by the edge of its eye
Shooting raining fire
as if I killed the Jew.
Sometimes, it turns serpentine with bra.s.s sinister fangs crawling speedily
Towards my future— a young ripening yolk terrorising me.
The raw calibration of earthquakes on the blood of my marrow may not baffle you when you come visiting
Tender as they are.
For they are not a tourist"s attraction;
my witnesses are the castles of human trade
The woe-road to the courtyard of h.e.l.l, the thunder slammed on the Richter scale
and a legacy of black wailing sinister shadows.
My spine
creaks to the weight of a dangling truth:
G.o.d speaks in forms and shadows I did not fall from the sky
or sprout from the depth of a sea.
I know my mother
my mother knew her grandma, and great grandpa was not an ape.
Remember,
there were splinters hungry long
before I was born by the crucible of a forge—
Saved from the alley by knives and "septic gloves which
still laugh at the strewn path on mother"s womb
But I will be ready for them in a blink
having read the truth in voices of the wild and garnered further lights for the testament of my soul.
II. I slaughtered many moons working miracles
with crisps of smoke.
Empty pans litter the fireplace mother, the sweltering-bone arched father, lonely in the absence of beer.
Pants were naked baskets, prayers were fixed deposits
Find authorized novels in Webnovel,faster updates, better experience,Please click for visiting.
awaiting maturation at trinity"s court.
Turning towards our tragedy
we called the priest-diviner a fraud deprived the vultures of our mite.
We had scrubbed our home with indigo dye simmered the store with the first urine worms would not stop biting our feet—
Worms would not stop dredging our feet. A million shackled feet long to be dead, desperadoes gun for the porous border
Epitaphs outwit smiles at the home of friends, nothing has happened to the hungry schoolboys looting silver from the courtyard of the G.o.ds…
III. I had looked the sun in the eye when it was golden at its rise;
the sheb.u.t.ter wept on the eve of its shine
The vagrant salt lost its essence to rivers of affirmation.
I had pressed my lips on morsels of starch
Suckled till swollen my left fingers
I want to suck my right and conquer the bowls of oil and pepper.
I want to purge my sh.e.l.l
of wailing-wandering splinters to liberate my freedom—
To scratch a conscience of steel till it yields its blood;
I"m weary of convenience seals—
I crave the Patmos experience to sharpen my conscience;
I have seen the sea, dwelt on the lagoon.
I want to clothe my strength with your blue paraphernalia lion in the iron
So I may smash the medals
of their pride on the moonstone at Eden and stir up the G.o.ds!
They said I did not witness the baking of a night—
I cannot traverse without their moonlight
That their landmines
have claimed a million men who drew daggers at their wits.
They have forgotten they have forgotten they have forgotten
That like the scheming of a rat, like the scheming of a termite and like the longings of the dead
The tortoise has sown
all her beans in vain.
My heart rumbles on the anvil beating to the call
and since they desire a sign
In the neighbourhood
I"m the tree Akalaudo
and never shall shave head to the floods.
IV. Now man,
O man, listen.
Open wide your arrogant ears
My heart is a talking drum resplendent with soulful blues—
its message is rain, its message is sulphur
It is a quickening spirit
burying we-men on their knees beating the dumb"s tongue into sword.
Beats swifter than a weaver"s shuttle, who dare dance its beats?
A chance dance, a chance death
My gong rakes up your corpse— my fathers dance its astral beats
I can see them on the threshing floor
When they tire the vultures cry
I burn the bones of settled old wines for incense I sound my heart-drum— a proverb still
See how my mothers are stamping the earth it was a night like this that gave me birth; tutored my gaming
And nailed my suckle where it hung clockwise on frontiers to
sabbaths of white-light…
V. Let it reel— it is not this ocean
the tortoise will boast of damming for the irrigation of its sh.e.l.l:
Ultramarine ladder, step-stone, drifting border-post and none can claim its holy place—
the throne of my Father.
Offspring of a broad-blue-truth linking
the red soil of heaven to the black of earth— gleefully the river meets the sea.
The river, the river, which has no hands
the river, which has no legs, which draws no net the-gently-flowing-river-in-the-woods.
The river-snails will have their fill
the young palms shall not shed their leaves, the hills will swallow the laugh of death.
Here"s the food-drink, favourite of Obatala; coded hands will be red with cam prophets will be many in the land.
The silk-slippery-spring-in-the-woods distilling the lemons
with my sieve of sands;
Meeting the signatories
overwhelmed by far lines of the G.o.ds,
can you strike your head against the pantheon?
Vibrant, yet in a season of drought bubbling to music from
the khalam of the caller
You can sound my heart cryptically too I, the tributary in their servitude—
for I"m eager for the next act...