BREAD, BUTTER AND BUKATA

Bread, Butter and Bukata
(Art on trial) Finger exercise.

All three chant, "he can't be him, when he has us", yes Art can't be Art because Art always has us at heart.

Order!
"Wag not your tongues in unison like unwilling kites dancing in the arms of the whirlwind", the Magistrate bellowed. "Speak not like the voice of a bend-down-select market on the day men get their wages. Let there be decorum. State your cases, one voicebox after another. Bread, you may rise"

Bread is all puffed up, and aldough he looks soft, he manages a stale joke.
"Even the Holy Book says, give us our daily bread. I only ask that Art seeks me daily. That will be all, my lord.

"Butter"!
"Slide into the dock, and remember, the truth only, no smearing, no slips"

Butter is all pale, wearing a stiff look in the cold courtroom.

"I only ask to make better every platter, and to get oil from every toil, so as to grease the elbows that bear aloft demanding hands".

Hearts melted and mouths became a-jar, as Butter put a lid on their previously hushed banter.

Bukata stepped forward, combat ready in khaki trousers with a dozen pockets.

" Art can't be Art, because, I am the bill to pay, the pill to heal. I am that music that plays only to the jingle of coins. I am the voice that calls...that says hello just to borrow to pay back on the morrow that never dawns. See, I am the fee that serves 3 terms every year in year out. Hear me out, I am the clothes that do no crimes but must be arra(i)nged and hung in a wardrobe. My other names are Credit the debit kidnapper.
Art can't be art, because he must forever play his many parts".

The Magistrate rules.
Art resigns and sighs.

Bread, Butter and Bukata wins.

UNTITLED POEMS

****** TRENDS *********
Like vapour, it comes and goes
forgotten like the pain of penile circumcision
more perishable than tomatoes
and short lived like a newspaper.

Untitled

I am the saint of Sodom
Stained by the righteousness of men
Steeped in the pool of sin

I am the naked crier
Waddling through a wardrobe of lies
Asking men to cover their shame

I am the hungry belly
Constipated with groaning utensils
Desiring a meal of your egos and pride

I jumped off from a corner of the earth
But my shadow caught me before I landed
He feared I would abandon him
To regale the world with my escapades
Stanzas scribbled before the sun
And verses uttered beneath the moon
He dragged me to narrate my story
To all, that I may bask in glory

Teach me to look down
When my head roofs the clouds 
That I may see that my feet
Hasn't left the earth, where it sprung

EIYE ILE MI OWON (Song)

SWEET INFLUENCE

It was a breezy evening under the almond tree, when 7yr old Candy asked her grandma a question. The question unearthed memories that created the present.

Candy, the pretty brown eyed girl asked,

“Grandma, why do all the girls in our neighbourhood have names with sweetness in them, like Oyinkan, Berry, Tundun, Caramel Adunola, Flo…

Grandma interrupted Candy,

“Once there lived a lady down the street. She was so kind and helped a lot of people. She gave Afusat, the pap seller money to start her pap business. And then when Nnnena’s husband ran away, this lady fed her kids for one whole year, until her husband came back home all repentant and sorry.

You see that little house where your backside is pricked with a needle when you have a fever? She built it. Oh, she did so many wonderful things.

The wonderful lady would go out very early in the morning and would only get back home by night fall. When she passed by she would wave and smile beautifully at everyone she met. We all knew her house but none visited her. She had no family…no kids, at least none that we knew of. Yet, she had a kind word for anyone who spoke to her.

During the weekends when she did not go out, she would go from house to house helping kids with their homework. Somehow, she could tell if you were hungry, and she would give you some bread and warm stew.

She was not just kind but beautiful too, with silver strands of hair criss-crossing her full eyebrows.

Then, one day, we didn’t see her again. One day became two, and two became three. That’s when we went looking for her. Her door was unlocked. We all went in slowly. We couldn’t call out her name, not because she didn’t have one, but because we didn’t know.

Right there on her bed, the only thing in her whole house, we saw her propped on her pillow, sleeping peacefully. Death was drawn over her gentle smile.

That day we all wept, when we saw her name signed under a pencil drawn portrait of her that hung on the wall.

All was silent, as little Candy asked again.

“Grandma, what was her name?”

“Her name was Sugar”.

LOVEMAKING

Lovemaking is not wrestling
you don't have to be a Hulk
to be the Ultimate Warrior.

Lovemaking is not boxing
because there is nothing wrong
in hitting below the belt

Lovemaking is not football
grabbing the ball
does not attract a penalty

Lovemaking is not a marathon
you can run very fast
and still go the distance

Lovemaking is not basketball
you don't have to bounce
to hit a 3 point

Lovemaking is not tennis
but you can smash
as you serve

Lovemaking is not a sport
though it is play
it is not meant for players

OLD FAITHFUL MISSY

*** OLD FAITHFUL MISSY ****

Forlorn scents live in my heart
Even as my quill trek miles
Away from her but not apart
Yearn I for her, e'en as my purse smiles.

Mercy me! My Missy misses me
Her wails are echoed in my sob
Many mute merchants voices I be
That Paul may live, Peter I rob.

S(HE) MURDERED (HIM)SELF

She screamed, then quickly gagged her mouth with her palms. The night was quiet, and the estate where he lived was quieter.
She cast another frightened look at him. He just lay there, naked, eyes bulging out, tongue sticking out from the corner of his mouth, his penis still turgid...and throbbing slightly. He was her lover, her life, her saviour...he was dead!
She didn't care to change from her negligee, which he was too impatient to peel off before he penetrated her. She peeped into the dark starry night and fled on barefoot.
Lawrence walked into his bedroom. His eyes blazing in anticipated rage. He went to the bar and poured himself a tall flute of vodka, lit a Dunhill cigarette and sank into the sofa just by his bed.
He dunked the drink in one gulp, took a long drag from his cigarette, blinked down warm tears from his bloodshot eyes and reached a hand under the sofa, producing a very stiff horse whip, got up and fetched himself another tall drink. He waited. A tad impatiently.
She ran through the night, feet racing homeward. And although she resisted the wind from unsheathing her from her silky night dress by holding down the frills as she sped along, yet the night felt humid...humid with unlove and confusion.
Lawrence was almost dozing off when he heard her climb up the stairs. The footsteps stopped and he could hear her panting...then sobbing and bobbing her head on the banister. He waited some more. Very impatiently.
She was shocked as she walked into the bedroom to find Lawrence, her husband seated and glaring at her like a starved vampire.
He smiled at her like an hyena smiles at a gazelle, got up and within a second was half an inch from her. His lips smashed into hers in a long, fevered kiss. Her sweat soaked negligee found his fingers and he pulled violently, leaving it in rags within a few moments.
She knew what was coming...slaps, blows to the head...whipping...torture...rape...and possibly a painful death, because his hand was between her thighs and he had felt another man's semen flowing down.
He had always been a smart man...and a cruel beast.
How would she have known that he had lied about traveling that morning? How would he have known that she was craving a man's tender touch and not the mauling of his fists? He figured it all out and cleverly drove her into the arms of her young lover who is now lying dead.
Lawrence pulled his lips away from hers and walked away slowly. She didn't know what to think. Then he halted, looked backwards and said in a suppressed maniacal tone, "Join me in the bathroom".
The bathroom was her husband's favourite rendezvous for sadomasochism. She hesitated for a minute, but she had nowhere to run...especially now that he just discovered that she was an adulteress. The adulteress that was his creation.
She inhaled deeply, surrendered to fate, and like a nanny goat being led to slaughter, she headed for the bathroom with wobbly legs.
At the door, she heard him growling and muttering cuss words under the running shower.
She wondered the mess her life had become. Overcome with helplessness, she bowed her head and wept.
Her tears stung her eyes as they dropped on her toes- then she saw it. A broomstick gently placed at the entrance of the bathroom door.
Magun!!!
It then dawned on her why her young lover had crowed like a cock before dying instantly.
Now, Lawrence wanted to neutralize the spell on her by making her cross the broomstick again.
She quickly removed the broomstick from its place, opened the door and walked into the bathroom. Then the violent abuse started.
She endured every blow until he was tired. Bloodied, she lay on the bathroom floor and spread her legs wide open.
Lawrence mounted his wife...his slave...his end.
As he rolled off her, spent, she watched him through a swollen eye as the crowing bubbled within his throat.
She saw the realization on his face. He tried to clamp his lips shut, but his spell was stronger than his will to survive.
Kookoorooku! Kookoorooku!! Kookoorooku!!!
Lawrence was dead! He lay there naked, eyes bulging out, tongue sticking out from the corner of his mouth, his penis still turgid and throbbing slightly.
The wicked commits suicide by sending Death on an errand.
THE END.

Photo- retireofwhat.com

SHADES OF A WELCOME

1.                                                                                        
Welcome home they say to him,
the rich furry carpets of Arabia,
the dense walls overlaid with waxed hues,
hues that smite the eyes with wonder,
and draws the fingertips to embrace.

2.
Welcome home they say to him again,
scents from china bowls overflowing with honeyed venison,
soft ballads tumbling out of the throats of minstrels and divas,
ballads that massage the nerves with soothing pleasure,
and caress the eyelids to slumber upon feathery pillows.

3.
Welcome home they say to him too,
the tattered ambience that houses penury,
the cracks and crevices that exhale memories,
memories of daunting, wide eyed hunger,
and heartless, bare faced kobolessness.

4.
Welcome home they say to him again too,
a roof that leads rainfall to the din of tin buckets,
buckets that sit beside buckets of a few pebbled ofada rice
Ofada rice that is munched amidst crunched misery,
misery that shares his bed and dreams.

5.
Welcome home they say to them,
darkness, blacker than the night of a lightless world,
silence that is the music of voiceless voids
voids that veil vanities buried away from views.


Image credits: messagetoeagle.com

WHAT LOVE IS NOT

**WHAT LOVE IS NOT***
Love is not make up
It’s gross to think it’s all shine and gloss.
Love is not six packs,
But may be packed with sixes that aren’t half a dozen
Love is not high cheek bones
Perhaps, the bond ‘tween the plump and bag of bones
Love is not flawless skin
Maybe akin to hugging the flaws and all
Love is not in the accent
Perhaps words that amend and repair
Love is not a huge phallus
Maybe in deep penetrating affections
Love is not candy sized nipples
Perhaps about two people who can breast life’s ripples
Love is not earth shaking orgasms
Maybe about shaking hands in the climax of friendship
Love is not a walk in the park
Perhaps finding someone to talk to when the sun goes dark
Love is not the movies
Maybe about the moves that move us to tears.
Love is not red wine
Perhaps when water becomes as thick as blood
Love is not selfies or ussies
Maybe when selfish can be usfish
Love is not in fancy funerals
Perhaps sweet moments hidden from cameras
I may not know what love is,
But I know what it is not.

HUNGRY MAN

Hungry Man is served Mother Earth
On a table of nonchalance.
He digs in with eyes wide
In cannibalistic fervour.
He chews forests whole,
Washing them down with rivers.
Hides, skin and tusks
Racing down to extinction
Via the road of a gluttonous throat.
Bony grasslands are gnawed at,
And spat out as gristles of deserts.
He gulps, then regurgitates oily bile
Into the waters, to fork out floating fillets.
Running a flaming florid tongue
Over a dying bowl of life,
He belches chloros and farts fluoros
…but there is more…
The succulence of his neck,
Is as inviting as salted bacon.
Hungry Man picks up the knife
And chops a chunk!


Photo from trendsupdate.com

INSOMNIA

**** INSOMNIA *****

Sleep lies awake
Stares me
In the eye

I dare a kiss,
She recoils,
rebuffs
my lust

I am high
and dry

She won't let me,
Sleep won't sleep

Insomnia!

SCHIZ STREET

**** SCHIZ STREET **** (A poem)

1.

This morning, he visits the streets

And can’t tear his thoughts from wonder

That men will swarm over a slab of sheaves

Exchanging saliva coated complaints

Of bad governance and UEFA triumphs

2.

This morning his eyes are harassed

By boobs bigger than bursting bras

Cleaving and clinging to eyes even when closed

Muddled minds moving, meandering and maneuvering

Through tempting tattoos on torturous thighs

3.

This morning, his ears strain to hear

The loud music from little headphones

Making youngsters convulse in maniacal puppetry

And of honks that hit the head with haunting hurts

From the highways and motorless corners

4.

So, this evening, he ponders in confusion

The itch that ails this ill illusion

He fared better he thought and blessed his luck

And from his dusty locks, he picked some lice for dinner

Savouring his own blood, he makes his bed in the refuse dump.