George Osodi
By
Agbaakin O. Jeremiah
Dear Mob
is your face
not a placard of rage?
i know how your loss
has distorted the things
about me- this nebulous art.
but wasn’t it you that blamed them?
when they first tried my case
with maddened noise
saying nothing.
for your eyes have seen swifter justice
now you swear:
justice is justice!
even the ones conjured by their clubs
and uneven stones.
in my gasp, I enter a trance:
as you rain your rage on me
even Death steals a scoop of hot sulfur
from my barbecuing flesh-
powdered cologne to prepare
a feast for a welcome home.
but I don’t scorn your careless doors
nor the folly of your booby traps.
you swear these pebbles pelt evil
from the land. but today,
this incantation only dies
surely, the spell shall live on.
but how does a corpse hold
the map of the living
to return the drug
you thought I stole.
but how could I neglect
a cousin dying of the flu?
Blood Lust
nothing quitens an ink-lust
but cancer growth of words-
maybe semi-malignant;
stubbornly defying chemotherapy
in muse applications.
but the arousal of muse wears off
faster than a cockerel’s orgasm.
unless it spreads to others’ eyes,
other hearts begging for
an infection of healings words-
clogging turbulent blood
as an adder’s venom
in the bloodstream of unholy slices of silences.
nothing sates the blood-lust of my quill
even an abundance of chapbooks,
my name scattered over the web,
a pseudonym is pseudo
it will not do.
at times, I am warmed by anthologies
of stillborn poetry-
infantile syllables bleeding red
on my LCD screen-
(red is the font colour of peace in Mubi)
wrapped in the brittle hard cover
of self-doubt
intoxicated by self-praise.
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