Thursday 8 June 2017

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!