Poor Utensil Maker

What is this craze?
world is this craze, I fight?
against better judgement, No bread
against the crazy cells in my body
saying "release this white substance"
you paint black all day
focus on the reason you are and have hair
there
let go of the id, and make fork
poor utensil maker

these cells telegraph something, none encompassing
and sure as they look up to this boucal cavity
for what they can't determine, I too must look
to a similar red colored cloud
and suffer a little when my body is on a diet

This body , this cunt tree, utensil factory
that forks me daily, where asky lies the
red colored cloud that rains blood daily
where i am bedeviled by an angel
out for this white substance
this glasses wearing mops that make me suffer
toil and struggle for a greed i breed
and cursed to make fork,
poor utensil maker

I scream at my mouth, give me a manual
a little lick there, touch there and handle here
on how to make good fork then i
bounce around this grave a proud threat
bent on destroying this red colored cloud
that hovers daily, Fellow cells
pass it on if you fail, this is experiment
this is craze, this is a search for a good fork
cursed utensil maker





By Victor Samuel 
@thevictorsamuel

Read firstly as a Spoken Word Poem At Wordaholics Event powered by Vivid Verse.. Somolu, Lagos Nigeria