A Word is Born

The quil blots its ink and a word is born

Hot Ether

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Girl in Mini-Skirt

because a nubile girl in mini-skirt just walked by;

Spirit Soaring

and the Spirit soars in seminal poetics;

Poet's Muse

as the Poet's mighty muse parts the skies;

Universe Rattled

then the Universe is rattled avant-garde;

Whispering Hands

as two anonymous hands whispered to a heart;

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MY POETRY HOME — trespassers welcome

dry tree Thumbs Up
(For Non-Conformity)
Written at Home (GRA), Ilorin — Nigeria.
(Wednesday, December 1, 1999)
I’ve been told to believe that
I fell into this weird world
between a pair of fat thighs and
that I habitually regurgitated some
curdled milk every night after lazing
around a pair of taut nipples all day long.

I remember teaching my grandma
how to suck eggs at age six;
and I remember seeing a few
toys around, plus some absent-minded
goats and cockroaches, too.
Even people who were more sheepish than
Dolly the Clone were seen just about everywhere.

I saw them all and thought of
how much mischief I could do to them;
thought of how a lot there was to be a nuisance to.

I grew up to bully any boy in the
suburban yards who so much as just
happened to be a weak boy,
and I incessantly broke their plastic buckets –
those small breasted lousy girls returning from
the neighbourhood public borehole pump.

Neighbours’ prized fowls at night
snatched off the low fences and
hurriedly beheaded right at the foot of the fence:
ah, that could only be “Notorious Gene!”

A school drop out at fourteen,
I played games at being a man.

A hunter.

Adolescent babes were the prime chases,
but some wild paedophiles close to forty
were also my occasional overshots.

Any bright eyed dame was a favourite target,
but it wasn’t enough to just target.
I had to always hit the bull eye as well.
Hence a few hearts I cracked, some I broke,
and a great many lot I shattered.

The crazy identity crises at eighteen
made me a free thinker at twenty one.
Unfinished secondary school would, I guess,
make me jobless at twenty four,
a tramp at thirty four, a nuisance to
myself and to society at thirty nine dot.

“Life is a bitch and then you die!”

I’ve heard that several times before,
but no way, I’ve got to hit the
high waters as a stowaway one night
and sail to the Mediterraneans.

Chased around by Sicilian Clans,
I’ll return at fifty nine
to oppose any government of the day.
I’ve got no guts for bloodshed though,
so I’ll fight no guerrilla wars.

At eighty three, I’ll learn to wear
dirty socks so that my feet can stink;
and I’ll then try my luck to
finish secondary school again.

Disrespectful teenagers may pull my
mustachio and frequently kick my ass
if they so wish to make it their business;
but I too may one day decide to bake lots of
hard-crust cholesterol pellets within my
arterial walls and simply cease to be.

Then, when I am deceased,
I shall go to the Bahamas.

© 2000, M-Auwal Gene III. All Rights Reserved
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"Love is the wisdom of the fool and the folly of the wise."