Categories
Love

old sport

Let’s talk magic; let’s talk love, let’s talk gibberish and a bit of sport.d

So many words unwritten, stories never told, loves lost and never found.

Situations. Cries smothered by pillows. Harrowing tales never believed.

No one feels your pain for you. Pain equated. Pangs of regret. What ifs.

Love; a myth, the known unknown, the smallest voice that makes it major.

Stories of eyes, heavy eyes. Days of dust. Forgiveness less forgetfulness. Unrelenting.

Head alongside heart. Spirit painted gold, hands raised high. Legs, the same. Tip goads.

Rains on the window pane. Count me in. Tingles in this silly place. The right places.

Undercover staying dry and warm. Adored nose kisses. Wherever, whenever.

Smiles. Stolen stares at your spumy face. Feelings. This is us. Blendy. This is us.

Once again it’s my soul. When all is lost and I lose control. I always know, it’s you. It is.

What we found, an epithet for Love. For you make me smile, time after time.

Been awake from this slumber now. It’s the soul again. It’s the story never written.

Those bites, bite your best friend like chocolate. Go on, go go. Car smells like cigarettes and cum. Go.

Hair still smell like coconut cum and chocolate and cum and more chocolate.

Steamy windows. Friends calling. Lips bitten. Marks left. Mental photographs.

Memories

Categories
#UgBlog #ugblogweek Affection Care Dreams Imagination Life Love Uganda ugbloc

Life moves on

This post has been domiciling in the Drafts folder for 6 months now. A visit from a friend had me spelunking this deep dark inundated cave. Well, it is one post light now.

Friend; “Later this year we gotta visit Ibanda and you know, show some love to our fallen Ninja’s friend.

Me; “Sure we should. It’s for saving a weekend.

Friend; “True mahn, but biggest worry is how many guys will go, won’t people be busy.

Me; “Shyaaaa, even if they were five. See, life is just like that. How many people do you think knew her surname or eve where she resided? If people won’t even see you when alive, think of when you’ve passed.” But so is life, eyyy and again, what’s life?”


My only quarrel with life; is just what it is, life.

Life moves on. Life is a bitch. Life just takes no prisoners. It’s never rainbows and butterflies. Life is that one thing you can go on about until you die. You hustle day in, day out just to end up lifeless.

Life will have you home sleeping yet again; after yet another day of constant pressure, bad days at work, worse moments on the road. You’ll seek solace at home, but home won’t be home with the heart is away.

Lazy again, procrastinating, perhaps having a terrible headache, body numbing cramps, but somewhere the party goes on. As if to celebrate your misery.

You wonder what could have been, you imagine had you been there, would it have counted? Did they miss you? How come the World never stopped when your world stopped. How come, no one of those close to you felt your pain with you?

No; the world rotates regardless, it keeps on rotating. Its axis just isn’t your head.

You could be in a ditch dying, after being knocked by speeding vehicle at one past midnight. It’ll be cold, it’ll be dark. You’ll feel hopeless, you can’t lift a finger. You’ll be there gasping for breath, using that last joule of energy to scream out for help. But no one will hear you. No one will know your trials, the friends you left at the bar, the same friends you bought drinks, the girl you kissed. Someone will stop just above you, she’ll unzip her pants and pee on you. It’ll feel a bit warmer, it’ll be like the dog days are over, but it’ll just add salt to injury.

You’ll scream with every last breath, but it won’t be enough. She’ll zip up and leave, you’ll be gutted. Life moves on. For you it won’t, tomorrow they’ll pick the lifeless you and send you off, you’ll be covered in dust. That love you will cry, the tears will dry. Life will continue as usual.

See; even when you sleep off, the iPod will keep playing. Sometimes the same song on repeat. Other times it’ll play on shuffle till morning. It keeps playing whether you’re listening or not. You wake up and start from last stop.

You have people in your life, they bring you flowers, sometimes chocolate. Share music with you, look out for you. Get an Uber for you on those cold bar nights at Stoke. They care, they genuinely care, love and adore you. The other day, they drove 124 kms just to pass you a water bottle when cramps were squelching you. It’s life.

They weren’t with you when the Post Graduate professor forced himself on you. They’ll never know, because you’ll never tell. You’ll never tell because you are scared, scarred and scabbed.

What you had will die. And you’ll be crushed too. And no one will know your pain. No one will feel that pain for you. Only You.

Sometimes you’ll feel like Social Media is toxic, like there’s too much negativity, like you want a fresh start. So you go on, you mute, block un follow, you change usernames, you do the most. Oh, you’re playing yourself, nothing changes. You’ll be back, you’ll try to start from last settings and nothing will have changed. Life Kyekyi.

“I need new friends” Oh. I also need a Friends Recycling Machine. Guess we got to wake up, we get caught up in the dream and it becomes reality. No one comes perfect, even if the packaging may lie sometimes. Pretty faces; awesome curves, big heads, you’re attracted and soon you, very soon. What You See Isn’t What You Get.

You can’t run away from your shadow, new friends always end up as the old ones sooner than you lose the New Friends receipts. It’s all about you, be the the new friend you need.


Life is every bit unfair. Some will say it’s unfairly fair; others, fairly unfair. But it’s unfair either way.

Half empty or half full, the other side will always feel deficient. You know how they say the grass, this, that. It’s never greener the other side, it’s just as green. Don’t be played.


On hills top is that One Tree. At the other end of the waves is sharp rocks and that Lighthouse. All there when you are, so much there when you aren’t.4ede2ef1-ef2a-465f-bfcc-ed143356e7bb

Categories
#UgBlog Imagination Life Love

Life…

What is Life?
An hour-glass on the steady run,
A mist retreating from the morning sun,
A dew drop on the fall.

A minute’s pause, a moment’s thought.
A Lover’s troth, a kiss that never lasts.
An eye blink, the last breath.

A bubble on the stream,
Petrichor in the air,
Surreptitious gazes, desire.

The puffing gale of morn,
A cobweb, hiding disappointment’s thorn,
A mother’s breast.
A busy, bustling, still-repeated dream.

What is Life?

Categories
#UgBlog #ugblogweek Affection Care Dreams Imagination Love Poetry Uganda ugbloc

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

Categories
#UgBlog #ugblogweek Love Poetry ugbloc

lovulets- Love and rivulets…

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I found love where it wasn’t supposed to be
In the desert, where love wasn’t supposed to grow
Pinch sleep out of me

I found love where it wasn’t supposed to be
Underneath the peeble by the river
Talk some sense to me

I found love where it wasn’t supposed to be
As the bra and the panties hit the bedroom floor
Won’t you just pray for me

I found love where it wasn’t supposed to be
Under the moonlight as she lit up to make clouds
And then she passed to me

I found love where it wasn’t supposed to be
One knock on her one room door
And the eyes locked it up

I found love where it wasn’t supposed to be
Stood up
She picked the flower and gave to me

I found love where it wasn’t supposed to be
At the hostel sinks
She sprinkled water at me

I found love where it wasn’t supposed to be
It was handed to me
Mean guy shouldn’t have left her with me

I found love where it wasn’t supposed to be
A jacket away
And she was truly the one for me

I found love where it wasn’t supposed to be
Right in front of me
Remind me where it was supposed to be

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Categories
Love ShortStory Stories

Pricks Dicks Pricks

Just like that.
His words were so smooth they wiped her tears away. Words of promise.
Rivulet after rivulet fingers cleared the waterworks as the words soothed the heart.

They had a promise made, pairs of lips and then away. Both under the influence, it was a night to be confused.
She was the ‘you’ll send me a letter and a rose’. She was the ‘we’ll grey together, we’ll hold hands forever’.
It didn’t hurt in depth of the night, it was the sweetest pain. With numbness it was only but a memory.
It was a night of magic rush, it was a night of torn knickers and soiled sheets.
Like a knife cutting through her soul, she cried for the scattered petals scattered all over the bed.
She cried for what would have been, what is, what are we and what will be. She just cried.

It started with a simple touch, a dance, and then a warm embrace at the stroke of midnight.
He knew what to say, when to smile. He just knew. He was just cute and his chest was the warmest open field.
Every step he made, every breath he took, he was her refuge, and she was as smitten as she was tipsy.
Just another clear, lit night sky and the coldest breeze left yet another couple with pointed nipples and hard-ons.
It was a strange night, cold winds, signs of rain but no dark clouds.

She was the girl in the corner in a crowded bar. He was the boy with the prettiest girl and a standing out leather jacket.
“I want to dance with you, take my hand, and let me get your jacket off.”
“And if you care about me, don’t go for the cigarette break.” “You might get a kiss if you behave, you know”
She’d come with friends, she wasn’t to leave with them. She was having the night of her life. And cock-blocking is a sin.
It’s well written in the old old Testament. In Song of Songs to be precise. And she was enjoying each passing song.

They could have danced forever, but the DJ cut it out. He just did. He said the rat had eaten the wires.
But we all knew it was time to close, we all knew they were avoiding a fine by the City Council.
Just like we all knew it would start raining in the next… It rained.

The ride back home was parked in the lower basement, it’d need a walk down the stairs, a walk tired legs in high heels wouldn’t or rather couldn’t make. She had to be carried, it was romantic, and it was sensual, much as it wasn’t necessary.
It must have been his idea because his finger found their way to the ridges of her butt straight to where the heart of her womanhood was. The cloth that covers the beautiful was the only impediment.
She was enervated buy the sudden touch and threw her legs in the air begging to be put down. She was put down.
She wasn’t happy with his touch, and told him so. She told him how she was from a religious family and was expected to keep some moral standards. In her stupor she told him a lot. She told him how she was keeping herself for the man she’d marry, for that night after the wedding vows.

She told him how she really loved him and wished they could walk down the aisle someday.
She told she wanted to be dropped at her apartment. How her roommate must have been worried all this time.
He listened in silence, probably being a good listener or perhaps counting his losses.
All that was interrupted by the startling realisation that the car keys were nowhere to be seen. They’d been in his jacket. The jacket she’d been custodian of. He was angry, more like disappointed but angry. He’d been guilty seconds before and wasn’t the type to get angry for long.

An Uber had to be called. They were half drenched in rain, half drenched in silence. First to the apartment, then to his home. It was to be.
“Hey, guess what, I’m wet, “slowly leaning on his shoulder. He hastily and subtly angrily shrugging her off replied, “Like we both are.”
“No, I’m wet,” she winked at him and placed her lips on his. Without minding the Uber driver they kissed, lower lip, upper lip tongue and all.
And he couldn’t help it, again his hands were up her skirts and it wasn’t the rain wet, it was the wet wet, the cream wet.
The Uber driver played deaf ear the whole journey and did what he did best. Hit potholes, it was sensual with every hole hit. The journey was as short as short journies come.

Soon they were at her plush apartment. She kissed him goodnight, they moved out, him opening the cab door and all the other endangered chivalric antics. He now had a smile on his face and evidence all over his fingers and palms.
She moved out but her knees couldn’t hold. So they paid the driver for waiting charges would be exorbitant.
Up they moved, up the terrace to her door. She fumbled for her keys, finally finding them in the deepest chambers of her bag. All this time she was sat on the veranda by the living room window pouring out all the contents of her bag, as he watched. Men don’t touch into ladies’ bags, it was written.

The door was open just in time to realise the roommate wasn’t around. Who jumped at who, it’s hard to tell. Her last memory was opening the room, which subsequently closed her mind.
Skirts tossed via the door mat, jackets under the bed. Bras half removed. Shoes on top of the bed and torn panties.
It was a night of pushes and screams, drips and creams. It was a night of dancing to perfect tunes. A night of shared heartbeats and wolf teeth bites.
It was the night. But they had a promise made, and now had a promise broken. The writing written on the wall in hand of the devil.

Categories
#UgBlog Love Poetry ShortStory

Nyehe.

“You told me you loved me
And I really didn’t know what to say
But I know what to say now
I think about you, and I’ve come to like you
And I like being with you
I have grown fond of you
And maybe you feel the same way
So the next time you tell me you love me
If there’s a next time…
I’ll say I love you”

Categories
#UgBlog Infinite Love Life Love Stories Uganda

Loose Talk.

What pulse drives you? Is it ambition, is it fear? Is it desire? What is it? Is it love?
Something has to be fuelling your fire, or else your flame will burn out.
And please don’t tell me your life runs on solar. Just don’t.

For you I know, clearly know; it is love, I can see it on your lips, I can see it in your eyes.
That glow on your skin tells one thing, you are neck deep in that shit that is love.
It must stink, doesn’t it? Oh, you can’t smell that, can you? Love numbs all senses remember.

I’ve been stalking you for eons now, and guess what;
You’re weird, he’s weird too.
You’re an idiot, he is too.
Okay, you’re real and so is he.
Don’t get me wrong. You two are special.

They say, to be in love is to be anchored in the safest anchorage and I can see you’ve really landed bulungi.
I can see the intensity of your feelings, your emotion of being, that passion, that self-surrender. They’ll Mollis you!
The love you’ve got isn’t Romeo and Juliet, isn’t Abelard and Heloise either; it certainly isn’t the imagination of countless poets, it’s Kampala love, it’s real love. Street Love.

Tell me you don’t keep his undershirts on.
I hear you sleep in his large T-shirts.
I’ve seen you kiss on the sidewalks from work.
You kiss more than you hug. To think you used to fist bump.
He now smells like your favourite perfume and you, his.

Late night calls. Frequent calls. A distended call log.
Imagine one chat, his chat is always above the ever vibrant Whatsapp group chats.
One word sentences for others, paragraphs and essays for that one chat.

I can smell love even in the filthiest of sewers.
And what you guys have is love love, it’s affection love, might even be sex love.

They say, only sex love can create the homogeneity, equality and reciprocity between two persons and drown egoism.
I can see the way you relate.
You girl, you must have seen each other already, unravelled things hitherto hidden in laces and all.
You must have eaten each other already, yes.

Remember the bruises, the other time, now I know they were bite marks.
What! So who is Dracula now?
Or have you been in a WWE fight ish with him, 12 rounds; no knockout.
I know, if there’s a drop of love in sex, 12 rounds isn’t a hard ask.
You know with love sex, it is said over and over again; means insatiable participation in the existence of the loved.
12 not out? Wow. You guys are great. Deserve a medal

By the way, Love is blind for those in the realm of love.
Had you noticed that you two were holding hands for more than 10 minutes instead of downing your beers?
Aha. Anyway, I’m happy for you. Nice hair by the way, where did you do it from? I want.

A girl talking to a girl, about a boy who is in love with a girl.

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Gregor Cresnor
Categories
Affection Care Imagination Infinite Love Love

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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Categories
#ugblogweek Life Love Motifs Poetry Rollicks

Good Lord Music

 

You own ear pods, don’t you?

Sitama nkutebeze. *Sit down I tell you.

Whatever song is playing,
Long as there’s the beat in your soul.

Music so dulcet that you lick your lips,
Shake your head.

Tap on the floor,
Stamp your feet.

Leaves you with goose bumps on the brain,
Two ear worms on your brain all day.

Takes you all the way, you don’t stay.
Eyes closed.

Twitches down your spine,
Desire coiling in the lower abdomen.

You swear, confess, think, about;
What was and what would have been.

It’s on repeat, one hour, two, eternity.
You don’t realise.

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Oh Good Music.
Sweet Lord Music.

It’s not on Shazam, you don’t know it’s title.
You feel bad, you lose hope. Might never find it.

It’s playing in a stranger’s house.
You follow the beat, knock on the door and sigh.

It’s on your playlist now,
You make yet another friend.

It plays, and boom Eureka moments.
You think the impossible, plan the inevitable.

It’s not weed, it’s not a capsule.
Just a drug.

Catch yourself grinning.
It’s the Music.

Bored, jaded and confused?
You play the Music.

When the heart is hurting.
You drown in the Music.

That long flight, or fright,
Call on Music.

Piano, Guitar lessons. Notes and Strings
For the Music.

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First kisses, pinned on the fallboard.
Ass on the Keyboard. Music.

First dance, Pas de deux.
Danseur,Ballerina chemistry on that harlequin floor.

Music.
Under the shower head, in the mirror.

The only thing that makes us feel alive.
As we make memories.

Slide to unlock?
It’s in the Music.