Thursday, 23 March 2017
A DEAD STRUGGLE FOR SURVIVAL
The privacy screen of the door he closed.
Hmm! Baba sat, he said “too Lataaro!” (Since Morning!)
Exhausted from the L queue. To him, in front was
A bald headed man, sitting like an agitating god
Of an edgy swivel chair, gestures singing a chorus of investigation,
As he had a complaining smile on his hind face – for working on a Christmas day.
His two new phones sitting with his standing pen,
And blinking a resilient call for snub,
Standing on his upper lips were bent acacia mangrove trees,
Preaching a somnambulating doctrine of Immortality for souls.
Fragile catkins, attached, but looking like eyes falling
From arched heavenly walls hiking on watery shallows
Two balls on his face, oversized I must say,
Stern! Like a light speed thrown sting, from the stick walking
Chameleon with elastic tongue as told by my forefathers - Yoruba land.
Intertwined smell, all together, surely
A mix of odour from:
(1) Palaecologist lab
(2) Newly painted haven
(3) And something bizarre, smelling bittersweet that baba can’t really decipher.
Secretly, baba felt his brain interlaced with he’s,
Sensed that he was a serial killer,
A high way man often on case altitudes,
Clinging to wall steps like inner subway feigns,
And preaching after breaking the lock,
Stammered, Jes u uuuu … s, was out for a tinko! tinko!
With strangely wired ones, hunting muscles
Like cougars, jaguars and ocean orcas.
Outside were diffusing broken bottles - two muscles in a bitter argument
Stylishly pretended like I was non-committal,
An aggressive big headed gave a punch to the outspoken
and frail looking. Left blood stains on white tiles,
Traced to a below zero degree, cold earthly hell fire.
Scalpels were held by some green covered,
Plastic eyed, standing their bodies in the next room,
It was an emergency of do something for his colored papers
, and tell the hustlers to throw him in the big fridge,
“Odigba” they said, Lock the door,