I Miss The P. (P****y)

Your soul as the groove; hands as a needle
You could sample rugged melodies from
The hiss of voices on vinyl and
Bleed classics
And watch the universe move
Her feet
To the beat
Of yo’ hurt

Dear dead ink gods and goddesses
You didn’t fail; you gave up
And blamed it on the muse

Like a gashing bullet wound
They put pressure on you
Lubed you with forced metaphors

But you held my hand
Helped me across the street:

…whiff of tobacco smoke hits your nostrils and you thank the clouds for the purple rain and Thika Highway and the Gikuyu youngman in the bus; says he helped street urchins become people who smell good and shave weekly; you saw the hunger in their eyes when you bought the Daily Nation and Fresh pellets from their shaking hands…

I took his number
Just in case
Poetry refuses to buy me a mansion

Idle nigs be on Facebook negating their own people
To feed their starving egos
But I bleed for ’em
I count the tear stains on my pillow
As pregnant stars on a virgin sky

Hungry rappers are looking at you like
“It’s dinner time”
Eager with rhyme
I rock
Like Uncle Sam in Iraq
I lose
What’s the use?

Guns in the sky we are
Shooting stars
Stealing wisdom from the trees
To feed the winds
Cutting the bull like Mithra
Mirrors and scissors
Trimming bristles of the self

Thumbing through yellow pages of time
I remember her
How she walked into my dream
Wrapped in a bad handwriting
And Kasuku writing pads

I remember:

When she oozed raw menses from her fertile crotch and
We–we sipped and smacked lips to the taste when

We were virgins dancing on her silent graveyard
Exhuming her bones so our magic words could flesh her skull when

The page spoke revolution, teargas and love
And creative mumblings, rumblings of starving minds when

Ego was a mere tail-less sperm volleying in the testicles of bards
And sages and savants when

She covered her thighs as a decent broad should
And those who saw her died lusting for her mystery

Lost in the hype, now she wanders naked on slam stages
She must be missing the feeling of me missing her

I miss her rhythm and colour
I miss the P. in her:

…power passion pomposity propensity progress philosophy prophesy poesy Pac PAWA patriotism purple politics purpose people (pih-poh=hip-hop) pain pen paper proxy for proxemics piracy Poxi Presha pressure pleasure…

I miss P.O.E.T.R.Y.