Mind's Bebop

…I don't care as there is always a moment to finish it and yet we cling to life and the clamor of the simple physical self to the stringent, against all the years questioning and philosophizing with a faith that does not measure with this paragon of unsureness

Tired and I push out all cravings for the upside down wine glass, the after disgust that comes with the tooth pasting on thenar space so I pipe down literally Thinking about how I can write about writer's block, not the activities associated with it but the feeling itself of having personal and emotional hindrances to writing, What is writing really, is it not just taking into cognizance things others fail to notice and making a canonization out of the body of work. Still will I ever have a good poem that talks about the violet sky and the smell of petrichor. By the time all I comb become grey you and I will never have gotten close to what went down in between this, In appreciating the pot Why don’t we play a little game, lets enter the maze, and give us a little smell

First, How come Angels only have Jewish names? How come they are Polymorphously perverse pouring piss on poor peasants feasting on pheasants from Philippines to Philadelphia who have personas with lesion and pneumonia pondering why Peter denied the Prince of peace? If Jupiter has two moons I too, hold a planet inside of me Pain, people are incredibly nauseating wrinkled with tire marks trying to push their lucks. Don't tell me you don't know I know you know that I know that the nighties you wear is see through and I see through your growing with the sundae cherry looking tops that Complicate my life because I write amidst emotional incest and constant tapping of a sickle shaped dildo I don't think is mine, about the luck, and key of stigmatic hatred what is funny is the most eager perfect alacritic stupidity amidst onomatopoetic stupidity smokes the fragrance of the evening as prospective pussies perfect their cat walks as they beg for money and attention with their vulva as their bowl 

Why is There's a need to turn every religious session to a rave or why is an alpha male is better, Is it because her breast fell under the weight of terrible life choices where the only radio on was the raptures messages and warnings from the transitional transistors who haven't transcended If Piece of meat is just a little girl What is a dead little girl? A demon possessing key of misplaced pride saying oh big bodied baby, frown for a body you do not own

Your whole blessing is a curse you could be a homosexual admiring when you look in the mirror do you see a devil or the angel do you become  what the society wants and forces you to become, sometimes angels go to hell. Since you are called by the pen you are cursed, into a life of abnegation, sacrifice, and unhappiness, a life where you are to have note pad, torn notes scattered in your rooms where piece of paper with a scribbled piece of pen on it could be Plateau jos!! Shakes our water bottles and see Okocha playing ball, close your bible today is not Sunday, 
This sweet and sour life, where there is a lot you can do with cherry seeds. Play them, open the pods, take out the inner girl in us and play them with earrings on our ears I’m looking for a piece of paper where I wrote a thought that would blow your mind, a rhyme that would change the way you think

Brothers begged me into the position of many helps but you said it for yourself, beiged me into many flushes but you saved it for yourself I cried and pleaded but you refused I ran into the bus you ran me over, I put a rope on my neck you made sure my noose was tight I ran the street, with my hands inside my shoulders looking for purpose, you chased after balancing 6 crates of eggs, All the while the polio had eaten deep into my steps, but you didn’t you call on people to flog me, lazy boy they screamed, I scrammed,

I cry more when a breast is lifted before I am flogged, even when we sleep with famed prostitutes, we still hope just by a little moment we can sickle our way and harvest the love they keep within, What if I rolled over and cleaned the footpath you walk on, promise me you will take it far and stab me with the spear you walk it like the massai the sky lookers are obsessed with

I rather hear I hate you than I will never remember you, I do this thing to gain eternal life from you and remain on your lips like an unanswered prayer, if It kills me promise you will be so sad that you will not rest,  and if I get depressed and die, promise me you will be more than happy to see me unburied, and allow the dogs eat my flesh as they fall from my rotting corpse, or dump me in the woods, path lit and my gut inflame from inside out there with my jaw agape, and the maggot as  my gut, wearing that jeans and team jersey you know me with,  insulting my cause from a far away country to protest a protest. And while you run let a thought funny come to you and whisper, he was always rotten no wonder he stinks, I hope you smile when I couldn’t tell the time and told me to tell you where the big hand was, I gave the big one as in 5 and the small one was 6, confused I asking if the clock worked in multiplication, where did thirty come from?

I know some, no everything, or just the sum of all your responsibilities. What if I told you that when you poured the rice into that cup plate that it made it hard for me to eat, promise me to go after me with a double handed slap and pinch from those fixed nails promise me that I would never eat meat for a whole week, for catching me doing just that.

I am in love with a child a child of  a man I do not know she has these lips- don’t they all, no her mouth’s lip with a long nose that seemed like ladders and step to her brain, I only trust loamy soil to plant my seeds in that drove me mad, made me circle around her, ask here business inquire about her promise me she will see it as usual, laugh it off, and when I ask her hypothetically she will tell me he’s hypothetically too old, old enough to be her father, March seems so long now, hands are on the hands of the clock cloaked running my patience out, red sands fill my mind out the window I look at the pain life have caused life ate around the pain where an upstairs window fly open; I bet a lonely soul lives there roaming the brick box with tired limbs and dry tongues if it were you, you don't go unaccredited like the tendons that fumbles underneath my skin

Gallop my way grave of my ancestors bump my footsteps telling me to take life slow, promising me that many of them who lie safely here still breath heavily, where do I rush to, So thanks for ridging my land grave of my ancestors, feed me with yam and coco yam if we don’t not listen either our house crack our walls seep through the floors and waste our efforts, when we cry to you remind us of the promise we made in December and tell us to come in march where and while we wait for map into the maze:

Feel your legs and skull riddled spores blind folders spread your barn, kiss your yams, rub your bones one body at a time, one soul but the mind has its dichotomy so this tribe must definitely kill that tribe; feed me their screams when you are done. We protect them, they are the product of our mistakes, feed them clothe them and put them in their place, unworthy of the inadequacies, they are the arm and the world can spill for all its care. The trampoline is slack still we jump and jump until the dream came true, I found this another dream” I said, We moved through  and atop dried pawpaw leaves where your breasts flung free. Woke up put on my torchlight point it At the camouflaged ceiling betoken of the Leakey roof that roof over the rusty fan, mosquitoes swoop by providing air support for the unit on my thumb toe. We live amidst noise and noisemakers calling on God that their breath wasn't enough, Same old me with my algae infested armor you come and strike it thoroughly, Life is seven billion intertwined twines and I remain the comedian on judgment day since imagery involves a register and big screen that showed all that happen in one’s life, for now I laugh with no love for another we better call to the day I have when I knew who I was. I call to abstract things I am abstract things to a lot of people i am anger, foolishness, idiocy and love a torn ear from the great map of this maze

So…

by Victor Samuel