Once, living as a verse

I leapt across creases of pages

Into books trolled by bristled fingers


I was once a man preoccupied with letters

Till the sexual tension bailed out as a folded hand

I read volumes of books, letters, more letters, and poems

And when God’s turn came, I found his works spilling all over


So I held him like a dandelion while I walked across a ridge

As I annihilated my vocals humming and masturbating an incipient disease

of the soul. I cross-checked his works while teetering across sharp valleys


Then God decreed let there be trees, and I chocked on forests

I wouldn’t attempt to battle a twig involved in intercrural sex with a leaf

if I didn’t know it represented a  violin.


So frequently, a disgruntled melody interrupts a part of my heart

That wants nothing to do with love, so often

palms have turned into ballistics, waving while pulling the trigger

Gawking at cartridges relishing at the thump of fire and soreness


But so often all these are also works of omission, I find myself

Winking, toasting, rubbing loins, chasing forlorn – Away

So as to strap the gale of restraint

But poetry worn-out of its whore-phase abandoned me

Only returning like a Japanese sex-toy, cunt!

While I disavow any abandonment of the arts I had undertaken


There is something effortless in poetry that infuriates me

How it looks like, how it sounds … that there is

A pattern, a revolt, conformity …

However, there is a nakedness that captivates me


It was poetry that taught me that if a man needed a moment

He must stand at the same place till he captures or turns into it.

© Eddy Ongili 2016


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