The Art of the Water Flower

Chevelin Illustrations. 
Artwork & Story.
Title: Aji Aya Bomb
17. http://t.co/Qqself0VMO

When god was a teenager antagonizing tribes
Across the Mediterranean and Arabian Sea
He still commissioned the beauty of the arts
Tapered a woman into artistry … and probably blinded
By his own creativity, destroyed men in battle
And cheered as the crowds in the war dungeons of Sparta

But when he grew old and had a son
He relented and let the earth do as it pleased
It was then that I was born and yoked
To answer how long a moment lasts
Such were the days that she stretched out love patterns
In my heart with songs, paintings, with rivulets
of addictive tension in my stomach

Then

Poetry shrouded my intellect and I felt sick
As a vagrant of language, hoping to translate
Her lips into words I could read and be contended but
Each time language fell haphazardly from her lips
And I badly needed the meaning
For what madness it is to love and fail to eloquently share the feeling.
She was the trappings of artistry and brilliance
Between those parts in my heart that were broken
Those in my mind that dreamt about the future
Others that burned on my skin to be cooed by her skin
And the rest in bones that wanted to follow her to the soil

Yet she came draped with luminous fire that men failed to give a name
She came as a misfit, as a lover and a fighter, as a queen and a beggar
She was disorder in silence and unquenchable chaos roamed her eyes
But still
I wanted total defeat
In her arms, thighs, lips … anywhere that I could feel subdued
I wanted an enclave, a resort, the forest, a pristine cave
And the full length of the Nile River
So that I could unite my fingers with hers and conjure
The definition of a moment as an electrical surge into the body
Yet that felt temporary and savagery

Sometimes the randomness of her galling repeats
Lurched my organs that I remained amazed when
I found myself in libraries, reminiscing, hiding tears
Ballooning out of each page and I must have felt the emptiness Beethoven had
Composing excellent symphonies only for darkness to plunge
The beauty of hurtling down the seas for the retirement of ages
And just like god retired, the agony of feeling forever as a moment
Became a prolonged disquiet of my craving
Now brittle, only bristled inordinately as a water flower
Existing in the kaleidoscope of immeasurable love for the arts

© Eddy Ongili 2016

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