Time and Waweru’s Ass

Vunja mifupa. Utakuja lia. Mapangala.

Time. Is a fucking thief. You fuck around with wrists and walls and get your virgin dreams sagging their skin. Like Waweru’s ass and darkened cigarette lips. He smoked and spoke prophecy by the cabbage yard to the boy. He was like my dad. But he wasn’t.

Time. Is a thief. It can snatch heart-shaped purses of your emotions because you loved too urgently; too recklessly. When the right thief comes in to show you that all the pain and naivety was worth it, you mistrust and argue until supper turns cold like a shoulder of a bitchy stepmother. Horus bless my dear mother. Her name is Mary and I am Michael. A mother of God. I am God thereof. A black angel with a glowing skin. Cast on earth to create plain metaphors out of pain and dreams. I still smell the herbs she used to massage my shoulders with. Moms, I still carry the weight of the world. And David is a blessing.

Time. Is a bitch. At least Black Pearl reminds me of that. And the sex is good. Sex is nothing without saliva and break-up texts and blackouts and angry blogs. Sex is a union of lonely souls. Of timelessness and empty bellies.

Time. Is like a morning pill on the kitchen table next to an empty coffee cup and dead ants stuck in the dregs of molten sugar crystals. We kill it. You and I. Used condoms and matchsticks when I sweep the room off your feet. Love and light.

I found my purpose in life in vanity. I have only to get rich and die. You and I. I and time. Cosmic souls. Twin flames and Christian names. Freedom without choice. That is time, motherfucker.

I mean, time is torture. I want to do things with my last reincarnation under the dome. Before Anunaki and Mayans predict another reverse of the clock, I’ma be reciting rituals by the sea of being. Ohm. A ‘Ta. Maharata. Chronic yawning. It’s boring to be human. God has a sense of humour because it’s boring on Sundays without her.

See, I am not a child anymore. But I suck my thumb when I’m hungry. Fellatio. She knows how to kiss life out of my breath. And I lie there and die when life gets sweet. Time is diabetic.

And time stops. And life breathes me in. I am reborn. I am wasted. Can you recover I? I and I?

I and I?

Can you?

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About Wudz

A scribe. A psychonaut.
This entry was posted in Poetry, Prose Poems and tagged . Bookmark the permalink.

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