Pick the call, Please

I’ve waiting too long
To dance to my favorite song
Your breath of fresh nature scent
That drowns me in euphoric sexual vent
Your bosom a pair of miniature pillows
Is a vessel to the fantasies filling my hollows
With forget-me-not your tongue wrote on my lips
As I suffocated on the flesh of your yummy tits
The nib of my tongue wrote love notes on your nipples
And that was a night of ‘heartquakes’ and skin ripples
Pick the call please
your silence bites like fleas

Advertisements

Muggers haven’t got a Prayer

Everything was happening so fast I didn’t even have time to contemplate. He was floored, a stream of blood gushing out of his mouth forming a pool on the ground below his chin. He spread his legs and winced in pain, speaking a language I’m yet to understand; this language you speak when your tongue is glued on the floors of your mouth and you still feel sign language isn’t enough to reveal the depth of pain that your entire system is drowning in. His eyes were a lifeless terror-stricken orbs foraging through the crowd for any person with even a vestige of humanity left in him to give a helping hand. The hysteria hadn’t calmed when they brought the last of weapon to end it all; a boulder whose full weight got four men clench their teeth and crash! He was gone…drugged by greed and ill-will. Wails, sirens, laughter and tears make a weird cocktail for those highly susceptible to melancholy. I sigh. Blow his brains, blow his brains. Muggers haven’t got a prayer!

What will it take?

The minds are already poisoned
And tongues sharpened
Rebuking all those who don’t conform
To ulterior handwork of the invisible deity

What will it take?
To love unconditionally
Those bereft of humanly love
Those who believe in the sun and stars
For those are truest beings they know

What will it take?
To hold the same hands that knows the depth
Of every hollowness in the human heart
Those whose meals were served by cynicism
And plates cleaned by licking-tongues of hate

What will it take?
To free the muted whimpers
Of a an empty handed mother
Whose children’s dreams drowned in the river of her tears?

What will it take?
To end this mad rush for wealth
While leaving broken families
Clinging to broken web of what love begot
Children asking questions
And life losing meaning as greed takes center stage?

What will it take?
To care and love
Expecting smiles and frowns in equal magnitude
What will it take to restore to wipe the tears,
Of the social misfits whose bones ooze of neglect?
I don’t know much, but it’s love I pine

My Father’s Barren Land

My father’s barren land still has a breath of life
A life that’s meanly kept for itself
Nothing ever grows here
Just rocks and bits of glaring pebbles

This barren land has nothing to offer
Just rocks with slippery surfaces
A haven for reptiles
Where lizards and snakes
Play their witty games

On this land cassava once blossomed
Only to get dehydrated before harvest
Mother ditched this barren land
Left it for the wild to roam in undeterred

This barren land is cursed
By the fathers of our fathers
Those it denied meals to feed
And shadows to rest

Dear fallen fathers
This land is good for something
Please vacate your current graves
And come inhabit this land
Let its belly swallow you
Let its rocky wall shield you
But again dear fathers
Will its shallow belly accommodate you?