to the memory
of a woman
i saw today
in my dusty shoes
and a brown envelope:

a blue-veined foetus in the frost
i wither, whimper at your indifference
maybe i am a bouquet of curling petals in a sassy-assy secretary’s trash basket
and a shredded love note from a shrinking violet

my night stand witnessed three murders: you, me and i

if we had kissed in the drizzle that twilight, would i have lived to bask in the sunshine of your breath?

you think dying young is a generous act
a total screw-up in humanity’s survival kit, i muse
the aroma of half-baked love is distinct
is masturbation a selfish act? you ask
how else could she love you, without loving herself? she asks

i wallow in the drying oasis of you; sipping from the drying dew drops
life is a poker game – you are the ace in a full deck

i curse the half-truths i ate a grain of salt with

i, lost in a brainwave of a half a kiss

me, a cipher finding resurrection in cyphers of a dying heart beat

in a way you conjure up my dreaded youthful ways
life offered me a clean slate
like a pauper’s underwear
i shitted on it and left it in bullet holes of time and trials

in the mean streets of githurai
i toiled as a black slave in mississippi
(wool pulled over my eyes)
pitch black, is the hue of love
i learnt

a jesus of coins – i saved savings
so our unborn could inherit
half the misery i was cradled in
then you caved in

this is my last suicide note
i’m dying for you:
my heart pulsating in the cup of your palms
don’t fold
i eat humble pie out of your hand

in drinking dens, i clutch a beer bottle as a last straw
happily drowning my manly sacrifices and shivers

if you had spent a night here
i promise i could dart your spongy skin with lip brushes like an angry compound metaphor
until your skin speaks a cacophony of body language

when i remember you
my tear ducts get horny sometimes
poetry on paper curbs the urge somehow
like a moan
and a towel wiping off the cum of freshly loved labia

the sun roams all day only to find home in the night
you may sojourn yonder for a soul’s yearning
only to find wholesomeness in the pieces you scattered…

a sower’s creed.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s