The Poetry Marathon

after the knob has been twisted

after the search for the truthful answers

after we are transported into that realm

after the cutlass cannot uproot the sausages

after there are no more spaces to kneel unto

after the coldness beneath the ground is exposed

after all blowers have taken the departing vows

after things in the safe suffocate from darkness

after the sayings reveal that we are sinners

after the hearing makes us overwrought

after God’s eyes becomes the next target

after we start moving to the lake

of flames.

how wonderful it is that you speak like me

even oceans spring forth from thee.

you interpret crude images in me

how wonderful it is that you speak like me.

even trees beg they be used by thee,

you slender beauty of ink that compliments me.

how wonderful it is that you speak like me;

even oceans spring forth from thee.

What is love to me?

It is my mother’s beautiful hungry eyes

watching us eat her meal.

the landlord announced a festival.

the butterflies happily flapped their wings:

slippery sleepy beauty signals the night’s success.

“beat the beets to liquid, tonight our mouth shall be filled.

get me my best jacket, I do not want to be late.”

the landlord shivered with tremors

of anxiety. tonight’s feast must be really great,

i definitely heard him mention the setting

as one beside the bayou. oh, the guest must be ready

to bend their elbows!

“order 50 incandescent bulbs, history must

know that my party was day in night. spice

the venue with Solomon’s cinnamon delivered in

seven buckets. for the fries, go hunt for elks, boy,

while the rest fix the carport. we’ve quite an unpredictable weather.”

then

all of a sudden he collapsed.

how sweet it was to imagine: here he was,

lonely in his stead- a peasant farmer.

“and don’t forget the blue song” he 

whispered in tears.

in the dark of the night

my heart aches for the anonymous.

uncertainty looms freely at night:

what doesn’t steal at this hour?

even the wind covets the mortals’

treasure: tiny possession of air-

breathe, the underrated end to all.

but we’ll all pretend we’re ignorant

of this knowledge though my Mama’s

eye tells me that she’d wander one 

day in the dark in search of the hideout

of rest; only she dumbly reveals to me

the charity that death might offer.

even though this might be true,

i hear the anonymous whisper

“search within, a spark is aching

for the light”. Oh, my dear mother,

do wait for your glorious fruits.

when people are in love

they tend to sleep than before

or is it just me and my thoughts?

And i’ve seen memes about the hurts

when people are in love

but I still think it’s my fault.

I guess I’ll never really concur

to how the body act and endure.

when people are in love.

Miracle,

a word we speak, our hearts

never included, our minds

never believed, our tongue

never relieved.

Miracle,

a question of faith, our

reasoning never comprehends.

the welder’s tool was all we found:

this file could read a lot about the dead.

her lips looked like the taste of black oxide coating

could that be the reason why it was found,

in the mouth of Regina where she bled?

the welder’s tool was all we found:

the doctor guessed her teeth were sold

but I think her resistance suited better teeth.

Isn’t that why in her mouth the teeth of the metal was found,

in place of the biting tales Regina body holds?

prisoners of will

caged by vows

of uneasy comfort.

two peas in a pods;

a journey to multiply

and to loosely tame passion.

trapped in my fingerprints, the traces are

not left on lines, rather, the smell of salt

buried in palms leaves a footprint of memories–

–and hope.

the air of whimpers serenades my life;

weight of memories in my head massages my

crossed leg. Modupe once asked if I could cross the roads in

Lagos without being led. maybe I should have told him

that the traces of lines on my palm lead me home.

my mother used to ask me why I took pride in tattooing my body with ink. I guess

my body is a piece of paper. was it?

sometimes, the levitical in my brother’s lyrics

unwraps balls of wasted passions and time

meant to be thrown back in time as childhood pasts.

and everytime I try to sleep, the moon won’t shine-

there are a lot of secrets in the dark of my sleep- so I wouldn’t see the paths.

so I leave a circle in my thumb to warn me to never

leave the boundaries as if “inyankanyan” means death. but still

I’m tensed; my stiff back won’t rest on the hard chair of comfort.

for now,

my fingerprints spreads over the missing disc.