Somewhere along waxed moonglow,
he drifts like a sweet aftertaste
on my lips...those warm fingers teasing
my frail wantoness
that even the pale moaning of his flame
becomes a thunder in itself.
And what is compelling about the musk
of this star is how one gaze can enter into
my universe fondling hidden caves
when he heaves gentle gentle love;
raw as touches unbuttoning my cellar:
A hundred whispers drape mounds
of my peak that burns in oil
and I succumb, we entwine... so delirious
into the lucent, stormy beams of his arms.
Till the falling of evening, when again
he strokes laughter on my hair
to linger on my trails undressing
my skin with songs of flowers --
while the malleable lightning in his irises
becomes utterly silent...tame.
They say that time heals all wounds
Visualise a cup of black coffee
Slowly fill it with water,
Until the water runs clear
I don't like this metaphor
Because the water will still taste like coffee
the inhibitions fade
a slow, deliberate ritual
some beautiful
mostly terrifying
the glass, a chalice
cradles the forbidden
each drop, a fiery kiss
flowing when the world tilts
diving into the velvet nectar
foreknown implosion
indulgence ignites
amber tides cascade
over softened edges
an eager palate
laughter bubbles up
a joyous release
rhythmic intoxication
and the world spins
kaleidoscopes of color
unconsidered judgements
a hazy fog settles
self spite to commence
unrestrained truths
hidden beneath the surface
spew candidly in chaos
a marionette dancing
self strung schemer
with every clink
memories
brimming with stories untold,
fragmented like shattered glass
thousands of jagged shards
stained plentiful
disappointment
a lingering ache
bitter emptiness
the cruel hand of reality
Subdues and suffocates
disillusioned symphonies
of joy
shackles to sobriety
Like an aftertaste you elude to;
Delicate freshness in the air,
sunshine citrus breaks through;
Forecast’s aftermath is unclear,
the only way to know is just to bite;
Ignore what lingers like ‘beware’;
You’ll be amazed at what hits right,
let your palate go where you’re unsure;
A surprisingly potent delight;
Expectation is the tip of rapture,
the foreplay of grande adventure.
Thanks Mum, that meal was a nice tasty dish
But no one will say if my breath smells of fish
I ask them but no-one will tell me the truth
Not even the seagull that’s sat on the roof
It’s only you, Mum, that I can rely on.
Son, she said grinning, you’re a sea lion
the slick that sticks to the back of your tongue
a little space time transporter
you can hear the music
smell the smoke
AFTERTASTE OF POWER
Power tastes like food
Intoxicates like spirit
Transient on the tongue
To good and bad incumbents
It's just awhile on the throne .
Aftertaste may be sweet
If not, it'll definitely be bitter
To many past kings
It's bittersweet
It all depends
Now I ring the bell
That to every eater
That's those in power
Aftertaste is sure
The end is real
As eggs is eggs
Ex will be word.
Tunde Dawood-Akerele
18th May, 2020
Nor a lovely form, nor a relevant content, nor sophisticated writing technique. Goosebumps, a cool wave along the spine, a flash of pleasure and the pleasure's aftertaste - a strange feeling akin to a guilty conscience of the handworker who, after a sweet fight with himself, swears "never again!" - that's a true sign of good literature. Oh, the sweet dawn of my studying English! I remember I felt like that when I first met Ogden Nash:
you shake and shake the
ketchup bottle nothing comes
and then a lot’ll*
* as cited in Americana, English-Russian Encyclopedic Dictionary, Poligramma, 1996
10.11.2019
Goosebumps Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Delilah Ventura
It happened a couple of days ago
When shivers overtook my body
Though not present anymore
I sense they will return
A walk through wilderness
I would not go there with others
Black coffee on the bench
Jukebox melodies uplifting the mood
Absinthe so smoothing
Heart like a thrilling drum beat
Strong spirits and a chess board
I appreciated his patience
A cigarette lit way
Through a late night walk
Then a cinnamon scent
And the aftertaste on his lips
Not only the touch
The blue eyes too
Ocean deep voice
And the rhythm of the night
I hoped the moment would last
But morning arrived
Though not present anymore
I sense shivers will return
Walk me down these nostalgic streets
And laugh and make me wander
Make me feel the bliss that dwells in me
Before it tears asunder
For I have seen you often whilst passing by
These shops and bicycles and walls
I have sensed you in this rising smoke of
Restaurants and cigarettes and squalls
For even in these quieted nights
When my thoughts are left untold
I begin to bespeak your calming presence
In the words of my every ode
I begin to delude and question time,
Which in these false timepieces warps
I begin to rest my body in utter oblivion
As if it were a floating corpse
And every morning I awake subdued,
My feelings and thoughts misplaced
For even my coffee bears in its brew
Your bitter aftertaste
That targeted sleep will not come
at once
in the tamed night.
A shifted pain
lifts the irretrievable word
shamed at edge.
The godwings
weave the rhyme of flight
for the wedding of death.
You are born again
in sleep
for another journey.
Satish Verma
freedom of choice
not free of consequence
first bite's aftertaste
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