By
Onis Sampson
Heart of a City
The city folds her legs
like a hinduist monk at prayer
and listens to twisted sound
steeple music out of blasted sea weed.
This is how she lifts her air,
energised breed of time
the joules per second
of a million men’s veins at once.
Unspreading her legs to meet the half sentences
of lost selves in retreat,
her energy holds out. I must be following her.
Her laughter etched on water, I am micro-gazing
at her as she turns
her ancient hips
bit by bit
into hydrogen.
A Compass for Utopia
It is coming, yes… along the invented terrain full
of black orchards. You stab puritan air at dawn and
watch leaves coil like cigarette smoke, a syntax
patiently tugs at you from Egyptian papyrus.
The action does not equate the response
yet nuances rise from the papyrus as iron bird
meandering from the archer’s arrow. We are
sitted at the slippery pavement
before us comes sunrays sucking the waters
about us. We are talking to each other with
inactive lips, inactive eyes, inactive tactile senses
denied of the sense of verbs.
You don’t like the Port Harcourt radio stations
you prefer the raw sentences that jab with a taste
of kolanut on tongue. I tell you to keep watch with me
as we pick a compass to search for utopia,
you don’t complain, you open your heart to scars
imprinted across immobile clouds.
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