home: the remix

this is how we define home:

socrates:                        home is now, here: a moment;

loma:                              a philosophical space

maya angelou:            between your teeth

rose kapri:                    where your inhibitions go to rest.

me:

home is not a place but a sound, a book, a bomb,
a hand reaching out for a dream. a state [feeling].

a golden city inside your cranium. home is
the self: a country road: the umbilical cord

to the womb that seeded the soul.

as in home is a yawning house or an empty pocket.
as in warsan’s poem about finding home on a boat.

as in home everything stirs beneath the cloud.
home is hip-hop: hitting the stage & you’d bounce like the world was on hydraulics
(or some other shit).

home is work: (trying to die with a name on your
father’s lips.)

home is where we bookmark the sun
with the sweat of our brow.

home ain’t here:
because the sky is supposed to be a garden of diamonds.
but here we translate every plane purr to a shallow grave
into which we dive. to thrive.

home is youth. as in campus riots down the way.
how do you yell rebellion with a toothpick in your mouth, kid?
is like yelling !revolution! from the welfare line.
so we understand if you choose to reshuffle your
[social criticism]
playlist.

home is yolo:
parties & live shows modulating into a vibrato peak
& the crowd roars, ascending widdit like an ocean wave.
& the body is a parliament, a house:
the floor is yours now;
orders the speaker to human feet.
now move!

home is purple nights. you ever stared at the moon for so long that you become a wave –
felt like you’re being pulled by it?
nature has no translation.

home is the weekend:
you/r gal (the one with dark nipples) & her booty
puffed like brackets;
like a mime gesticulating how vast the universe is.
it was okay being broke as long as we cuddled
all day, yawning, till our breath turned acid
and we recessed for a meal down the café for
more energy to melt our bodies into oceans.

home is ohm:Ω: mom:
drinking: fire from her breakfast cup:
mom’s fire. as in home is when love comes from the
centre.

BUT here:
no boulevard in these streets.
only stones
on one side
& birds
on the other.

somewhat, a typical african hi.story on a loop:

home is [order out of] chaos [theory].

 

 

 

April 17, 2016
South Kordofan
Sudan


Download this poem in original format: home II

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About Wudz

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

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