Until she’ll be Known

fleshy muse, sometimes you topple from your dress the way a ripe mango does from its coverings, you target the fall as if calculating to fall onto my tower except you keep admiring, yes you keep admiring each single day

I forget poetry, rhyming couplets, sonnets and the hypothesis of a million monkeys typewriting Shakespeare’s works

I forget behistun rocks, the hieroglyphics and any kind of demonic conspiracy against time with whoever caused the big to bang against the Andromeda spiral to form the sacrilegious body of a woman as the Valkyries in Valhalla 

I forget the Eden tales, the rhetorical declaration of oneness between man and woman, the Talmud, the Bible and the Koran and all religio-sexual theories, the Poetic Edda , Pothos and Peitho, Kamadeva and Rati, Oshun and all affixed  expositions of desires

I forget diagnosis, gynecology and poetic examination, kundalini and tantric massage, lingam and the wiggling excitement of blending with the waves, prognosis of the sirens power and wonder how easy it is to puppet my blood into an addictive disease beyond dopamine and coke

I forget philosophy, closeted melancholies and rapture of seeds to life, I forget theories of Roman whores and Greek nudity, I forget idealism and recession, the karma sutra and all the ways of misdirecting the idea of connection by getting a blowjob, all the sanctum of Italian hymns and Yoruba declarations of the rightful manner, I forget punishment by philosophy, Sanskrit and Bhagavta Purana

I forget poetry, I keep forgetting poetry; I forget Belle, Amaris and all the girls I never wrote about, my ever one true love between them and all the rejection. I forget the concept of dualism and all the treachery of the heart, I forget the inspiration of hunting and all manner of chasing after the moon, the fairytales and the oft-spoken idea of paradise in the heart of mama Africa. I forget form and rub the unrelenting wave of passion to another approaching destruction in the form of another set of lips. I forget who I am

fleshy muse, sometimes you resemble the loins of my grammar pedant, the language in grimoire, the griots and all the sages that are in appeasement over my failure, i speak nothing that can annotate the formation of your ass but when you jiggle before my eyes, i suddenly remember your thighs; i touch remember eye-touch

I gather the weapons of mass creation in my pea sized brain, I keep gathering until I am unable to hold it anymore. I remember Anon and  everything I think of is stupid like why Valerian poetry sounds better than Kenyan poetry, as how the critics way-lay us to do justice and write practically about mama Africa, all at once, I keep undressing until I think I am an externalist in the pursuit of the little things in life. Each goddamned day I crave for the butterfly touches I want on my skin and out of my stomach, each goddamned day.

I gather burning candles, smelly coffee and the retributions of desires through eating together, like Ramadhan I burn with hunger only to be anxious by Adhan delaying the readings before declaring myself fit for the adjudication of my brethren sins, I keep gathering the shameful frock I perceive from the prophets and their intoxication with dining. I desire all of them, the fifth Veda and the elements of the tairens Shiva and Shakti

fleshy muse, as you lavishly bite my lower lip, as i map the contours of your back in my mind, as i feel the changing temperature and the highness of your mountainous regions, i curtsy to find their beginning, you tug, i rub. perpetually provocative the delicious faces of thirst, faces of lust and faces of boners; the twins inquire about my perusal like a grinding halt on the realization of rain in famine. i grope, you smile, i touch, you laugh, i circle, you moan. i remember my prayers, the edicts, precepts and demolishing of dogma and i wonder just how possible it is to write poems when high on steel except that a there is melting, an exciting demolition. i forget reality and sink in oblivion as your tongue meets my ecstatic eye on the other head, women complain about.  i forget literature ideas on probing and the stylistic devices of the karma sutra; i prefer free verse and call out to god like i am in need of penance. you moisture, i seek, i make my way winking at dead white poets at who is the better man now, i dislike contemporariness, they all are entitled, i stop thinking, i am there. i probe the emerald gates of indescribable magic as if guided by the harmony of a violin. goddammit, i remember the violin and in moments i am off too witness the bonding of my tongue to the petals of the jewel of storms, i dislike my mental state, i forget all poetic ways including breaking of a stanza until i feel you heave and lock my head in your thighs. i widen up like an astronomic discovery and finish my musing with the rapture of anthill upon the meeting of a giant foot; i fall next to you in pieces. i remember words like an ambivalent painting of the nude muses.

I forget poetry; I forget everything until I am unable to go from here.

(C) Eddy Ongili 2015

Inspired by “The Veiled Secret” by Umar Abubakar Sidi


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s