I will

“I have a headache so I won’t write.” I have thoughts. That yearn to be let out. And they’ll be.
I have a lot that I’m sleeping on. The sleep is sweet. I want more.
I’l write something so nice. It’ll have tongues wagging. When I wake up, I will.
Oh here comes the rain. Soon as it dries up i’ll write. I love the rain. I love the sleep. I live for sleep in the rain.
I’ll wake up. I’ll write. My friend, she wants a Billet-doux written. She longs for it. I’ll write. She’ll smile.
I bought her a flower. It dried up. she smiled. She didn’t sneeze this time. It was dry. She loved it, but she didn’t say.
The chocolate. It didn’t melt. It was melted. Words were written. In it. “Write me something, anything.” What was left. It was smudged. On her favorite seat. My face.
“I can’t say i love you. I can say I love ink, this ink, you and paper.”
I’ll write. Anything. It’ll be short, it’ll be from the heart and it’ll be about us.
When i wake up. I’ll write.


From this dream. When I wake up… to be continued.

Ayyy

Little Pretty Woman
Blessed with a bosom capped with twin peaks
Adorned with dark thick tipped nipples
Lance them by the edges of my mouth
Let it joustle with the thrust of my tongue

Take me deep into it
That little place they call sin
The enclave hushed by desire
Major Arcana cards held aloft
Where you’re High Priestess and I obey

Let me touch your thin veil of awareness
Where touch is forever more
Envelop me with your nether lips
Warm embraces the hedonist never forgets
Engulf me in swatches of sodden covers
Palpitating with a certain accord to the pink

Little curvy woman
Blessed with a derriere so bountiful
Juggled by the sway of your hips
Lay me on your altar of euphoria
Pierce me with the dagger of your eyes
Cleanse me with the taste of your lips

Even as the furnance that is my loins burns
Erecting the tower that is this meat
Babel reaching for the stars inside the slit
Veins filling the shaft with venom
Don’t cool it down for no remonstrance

Despite the flush of my cheeks
Teach me the ways of your castle
That I may lay my life down to defend
Be my Delilah, this strength I give away
This hair, eat away

Daughter of gods
Let me adjusting the bra that contours your bust
Let me take you from behind
Not like the dog I am, but a god
Let me into your infinite wetness
Across the waves of your ocean
Animate my desire in your well of creation

Impale me with your long sharp one
Bruises deep burgundy like fine wine
The colors you place onto my body
Soothen it with your warm wet tongue
And the littl whispers down my ear

Allow me to abseil those twin peaks
So I embrace their dark tipped cupolas
Grinding and winding down like an funambulist
Let me overturn your mound
Tending the sweet spot. Of pleasure
Tendrils convulsing the cradle that is your body
Hold on tight, this is us.No names, just pleasure

Birthdate Blues.

 

Random Post. Typed on my way from the Field. In a cab with fake music and super cold AC.


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November can’t wait for you. The month that resets my life. 1st of November, when reconciliations of my achievements and deliberations about my life is carried out. To one who doesn’t make resolutions, the measure is the feeling. Am I feeling good about where I am? Where I’m going? The pasr isn’t something I dwell on, so where I tread is a ground with no thorns.

1st November, All Saints Day. The date of my birth, now the date of my birth anniversary. I always feel like a saint, because of what my life has been. Not much but miracle after miracle. Blessed, that’s what I am.

1st November the day I get treats from people I like and those that I don’t.

2nd November the day I get to feel bad for treating people half the way they treated me. Life is such that you can’t appease everyone you have in your life on some occasions. There will always be priorities, choices and opportunity costs and the like.

Valentines day taught me more about ‘Occasion Disappointments’. Being Single showed me the trials of being affectionate or close to affectionate to more than one person. You have a Sandra expecting you to call and do the wishes, send flowers and dinner or something and you have a Martha who you kissed last week and feelings are still high in the air.

There’s a Doreen who works with you and always feels you are the one, and you sometimes tell her she is the close one. There’s a Linda who is 500kms away to whom you shouldn’t forget to send wishes.

It so happens that there’s a Manchester United vs Arsenal game, an El classico derby later that night and you are the kind of man.

You regret the next day, Whatsapp messages saying; ‘You forgot about me’, ‘You chucked me’, ‘Kale, you guy, fuck you’.

It is life, It’s what it is.

This November, this first November will be special. I can feel it, I’m in love and happen to share a birth month with the lover. and I know she’ll do bad things to me. She’ll feed nice things to me. She’ll take me places and back.

This November, I’ll be who I always want to be. Because my life will be reset, all fresh and new. This November I’ll be older, wiser and happier. Happier because it’ll be just a month or two to the next year. Happy because November is the last normal month of 2016.

2016 which has been a year of mixed fortunes. I had my first close death in 2016, I had my first taste of unemployment in 2016. But also I got this job in a place I like the most and most importantly met this girl, this complete girl, one who anyone would want to live with happily ever after.

Either way 2016 has to end before anything bad stains it the more. Even the economy is fast falling. I hope, only hope that I have enough for November. Cake will be eaten; Javas food munched and life lived.

Youuuu, November; come around already.

 

Dumbballs.

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Has a man approached you, opened his mouth and you’re like WTF? Well it can’t get any more dramatic than;

I recognise you.
Do you pray from Watoto North West?
Have you been to Cafe Javas Kampala Boulevhahad?
Did you audition for Big Brother Africa?
Could it be have been the last Blankets and Wine?
Did you intern with the Parliament?

I have seen you somewhere.
It can’t be Legends, is it?
Do you pray from All Saints on Sundays?
Are you the NTV lady?
The Ascot races, weren’t you in the adjacent tent?
I knew it, the MTN Marathon it is.

I recognise you.
I sat behind you in this High School class.
We are in the same Whatsapp group.
I play ball with your brothers.
We were on the same plane to Qatar.
The WestCoast Gym, I work out from there too.

I’ve met you somewhere.
Oh yes, it’s Iguana.
Is it you I met via Ekisaakate in Bristol?
Wow, I was at your christening, you’ve grown!
Monot Bar, must have been there.

I think I know you.
I don’t know from where.
I just have that feeling.
Nice to bump into you again.
I’m Amanya. You?

Being a man is treading the path to dumbville. Approaching a girl or starting up a conversation is your ticket.
Sometimes you need a pick up line, not a stanza, just a line. Sometimes you need God’s grace.
Some people are always genuine. Other people are sometimes genuine, other times not.
It’s dumb whichever way you look at it. Only that passion numbs dumb.

Tutee

The girl I loved but never fell in love with.
The girl who loved me but never owned me.

Opportunity knocks once just like lightning strikes a spot only once, they say.
Stifle your feelings and the chemistry, the ‘connection’ will be asphyxiated. Not good.
You can only take a small bite of your cake, if you wanna keep it.
Apprehensiveness will deny you what’s truly yours.
Or will only let you taste just enough to fill you with enough what ifs.
Fear of what next. Fear of companionship, fear of emotional submissiveness. Not good.

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She came into his life at time when he’d just moved from a single sex school to a mixed one.
When he didn’t know how to react to daily proximity to a girl he’d have something for. Or any girl at that.
She touched him when the earmarks of a past relationship hadn’t faded away.
When he was still in denial of feelings past, in incredulity of the circs present.
A past relationship of long distance letters, stolen kisses on Interact days and a once in a lifetime dub on Sosh.
To having skirts all over, soft tender rubs from arms passing by, the high pitched voices and giggles.
Either way she touched him and what sprung up was a bond for a lifetime.

The girl I shared my vests with but never shared a towel.
The girl who showed me, compared her little boobs with my chest.

Affection is so cryptic, it just sprouts like a shoot burgeoning from a seedless raisin.
It fills your soul and you  cease to care about how much you care and feel for the other.
Nothing in this world makes us so necessary to others as the affection we have for them, nothing.
Whether it is reciprocated or not, doubled or halved, still you care, incessantly. And you don’t see it. You don’t realize it till someone points you there, and you feel it.
It feels good too, feeling something you can’t quite comprehend.
As to love is passion, contagion is to affection. You catch it, along the way, like it or not.
If it’s real, it sticks. Only in affection is durable care bottled.

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He always made sure she had a blazer on, as she was asthmatic. She made sure he attended lessons as he was not that motivated.
She always fought his fights for him, and he defended her all through thick and very thick.
Every weekend they’d sit under the shade near the basket ball court and chat away for hours, like forever.
Only that forever is never enough because was always evening prep.
They were not in love, they were just there, they weren’t even friends. They were something else. They were like clones.
And everyone knew it. Talked about it but couldn’t explain it, as they both seemed to be seeing others.
When she lost her dad, it’s in his chest that she found solace. He was there for her all through, holding her hand.
And hold hands they did, every day at evening prayers, in church seated on the wretched pews every sunday.
Something was in their hands, a connection of sorts. For the hands would pen endless chits.
In church, at the aisle holding hands they would be, ought to be, as everyone predicted, but for affection devoid of action.

The girl I will never marry, but whose hand I’ll happily give away.
The girl who will never make our blood thicker than water.

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