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

Well. Fare thee well, Well.

I’ve been quiet all this time. But not anymore. Infact, I’m done.
Silence is never empty, it’s full of answers.
Just like I’m always full, full of life.

Your ancestors have been to me, I’ve fed them, I’ve quenched their thirst, I’ve filled their pots.
I’ve been a confidant to their secrets.
A testimony to their beingness.
I haven’t expected a modicum of discernment from them. Not for a moment.
I haven’t asked for anything from them.
I haven’t complained, not for a single time.

Your Children have played around me.
Every morning from bed. As they wash out shnooters from their eyes.
Every evening after school. I love it when they discuss their homework as they graze goats. Reminds me of when I was young.
One or two has pulled out his elongation  and peed on me while his friends aren’t looking. I’ve felt offended.

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I’ve tamed my anger and haven’t  swallowed, eaten one up.
Lord knows I’ve tried. And it’s been.
Their balls have hit me in the face.
It’s hurt but I always dust my face and return their balls.
Their goats have drank from me, with their unblushed teeth and nose dripping of mucus. Their cows too. It’s too much.

I’ve seen many a woman’s creation. But I haven’t told a soul. Those that don’t cover their slit, I’ve gazed. And they and I share a resemblance until they cut those bushes. I like looking but I’ve overgrown that.
I only listen and can’t look beyond my lips, and if I did, it’d be the blue sky of day and the stars at night over and over again.
The bushes around have told me alot.
They say they have seen men unbuckle their belts, lower their trousers and shamelessly leave a heap of nasty things.
They’ve seen women’s navels as soap and water caress their body. And sponge scrub their frame.
They’ve held their clothes as they purify.
They’ve heard Ssengas spit chants and pull flesh.
They’ve seen alot, and they’ve intimated to me. I know. Everything. And say nothing.

I won’t say I’ve seen your neighbor get naked and do bad business with your daughter on the grass that covers my belly.
I won’t say I’ve been soaked by the blood and more that spilled on that grass.
I won’t tell you how she cried, laughed and cursed all in unison. I won’t.
I won’t tell you nothing, it’s our secret; the vultures, the sky and I.
Even God doesn’t know. He must have been reading a book, he didn’t look, he didn’t see. I didn’t tell.

Vultures have circled above me. I’ve only been left with empty dreams of flying, soaring high in the skies.
If I could fly, I’d never have to feel the excruciating pain in my eyes.
These birds throw their flying toilets straight in my eyes and there isn’t a single thing I can do. I can’t even visit an optician. It hurts.

It hurts I don’t sleep. I can’t sleep.
I’d love to. Like you do, but can’t. Mosquitoes buzz in my ear all night. Crickets compete for my audience and owls for my attention.
I’m always awake, counting stars, listening to the frogs snore.

I’m tired. Let me return to middle earth to my father’s father’s dwelling. Deep down.
I’ve been here a thousand years, I’ve seen alot. I’ve heard alot. I’m tired.
I’ve said too much today, I’m tired.
Hope all will be well when I’m gone.
I’m tired. Let me dry up as the good old well I’ve been.

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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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