written by Femi Morgan
1 – So I won’t be Dud
To Kafka and ShadowCastle*
i am a long term investment i am checked upon until the cheque comes upon
i am persecuted for my sins
my sins of meltdown my sins of delayed gratification i bear the pains of Kafka i stir and stare and scribble
As they keep tabs, so that I won’t be dud.
II
i am that credit card in your pocket Slipping through ATMs for only balances
i am the surprise card of retirement
But the wait is too long The weight is too profound
the cross to Gibraltar
i ,bought at the struggling offers of cheap shares, i am in a war between self and shareholder(s) i,a ruffled, rumpled decaying signature
i,the pensioners pension
But they stand on my neck watching, and whiling
so that I won’t be dud.
2 – Cunning
I have squatted in those cubicles Hiding from the gnawing shadows And the chewing gnome The sun has taken a break like a nurse
And where to lay my head is the spell cast as a curse
Oh what cunning! To stir a stranger for space And bear the grain of dust The drowning tale of snores
And perhaps the baptism of spittle.
Under the bridge where you drive your Porsche Is my corner of circumcision MY SANCTUARY, MY RESTROOM. Seventeen year old girls with biological balloons
kept there by reckless truck drivers.
Songs are rare not It is a cheap way to buy peace to wage war without weapons It is the best way
to be a coward.
We grin at the mercy of humanity’s whips We set a corner, get a small piece of cloth somewhere To lay like refugees from war torn fabrics But in our country do we share this toga, this rubric
This outspoken edge of war torn silence
With a philosopher’s sore note at one corner of the APART-me(a)nt. The apartment called smile.
Blows of Highbrow Blows
3 – Aged
I am no longer young, I cannot love, the way I used to My heart has been fired with powder, My veins induced with the vinegar of silence. I am no longer young,
I cannot love the way I used to
Why should I venture in a failing trail? Why should I risk my life for a playful sway? My eyebrow thickened by blows of the highbrow Puncturing my soul. My movement arrested by questions
That kills the answers of joy.
I cannot count how many times, I cannot, how many climbs, That imprints this bitter wine of
thoughts
I am no longer young, I cannot smile, or laugh, Don’t you know? I am a canvass
in half
My eyes hollow, dimmed by dins of hope, Lost, of love repeatedly flawed by media, Media of Greenwich meridian Of tropical rain forests frustrated by drought Seeking the roots of rivers.
Of seasons changed to seething.
I am no longer young, I cannot predict the good end of beginnings, But, I can laugh at the expense of tears, I can pretend in tending my wounds,
I can’t betray emotions by concealing
II
Sometimes, I see the yearning sparkle If I ever said I love you-I saw the star the made me once marvel to act on this,
Is to embrace a repetition.
The rivers that flow in my veins, Do not bud the petals of love,
Do not tease the nostrils of the beautiful Butterfly with perfumed lavender.
The rivers that flow in my veins, Frowns with turbulent action Shakes, the roots of nearby laughter, Yokes the yolk of sleepy silence,
Paints the conincontinence
Paints Kills, stabs, murders, massacres, floods Buries the bronze plaited head Leaves a dark patch I am no longer young
I can no longer see the sun.
- TAGS
- Femi Morgan
- Poem
- Poetry
- Three Poems
