Pox pigeon carrier of pestilent tidings,
those carcase messages
kiln blow in the air
like urn ashes
What dour condor news
does thou fading twilight beak bring?
Witching hour hex blues
only the grave vex tomb vulture sing
Let the dirt breathers
allow a woe amplitude of fear
to impregnate their ear
So every womb bereaver
will shed a stillborn tweet tear
Haughty hope gasp dies
in the darkness of pre-dawn
As cryo crows of the nether voyage
carrion wave crypt cries,
from broken vial eyes,
of next-gen passenger pawns
Hear the infectious warbling,
a decaying flesh sound
of ill vibrations
O howl
the boo ravens abound
Void sickly the caw noise sing
Used carcase dealer
got a crash dummy discount
for the
covetous consumer
Pyramid chain customers
all have the
Pharaoh chariot lust
Crypto-coin tarnished souls
want a cartel vehicle
to transport
their false profit cargo
“You need a boss eighteen wheeler,”
says the
dark sunglass, shady-voice dealer
“Something catacomb big
to a-carry your
Faustian minnow bait load
I suggest a coffin-lined rig,
with a trapdoor
to cattle prod secure goad”
With a snake charmer drone,
the crafty saleswoman
viper spit rattled on and on
Raising the heat of the fever pitch,
she suggestively hissed,
“Don’t you feel that Route 66 itch
Get an added sixth gear,
and squeal hear the asphalt buckle below
The sirens, have no fear ...
blues on the take, gon be on cruise control”
“Purchase a roadkill deal, Dirt Devil eighteen wheeler —
And Judas silver grin sign
the blotted-out dotted line, ”
croons the black widow repo clad, used carcase dealer
(With apologies to Edgar Allen Poe )
Finding myself so berated,
I muttered something syncopated,
as seething and with burning eyes stormed I forth as on a secret chore. Returning answered well his gall
for I, with no remorse at all,
blew his feathered carcase through the wall.
A wet flannel cleared the gore.
"That's my trusty Purdey shotgun loaded with lead shot - twelve bore."
This I said, and nothing more.
Now when friends, in admiration,
comment on my ventilation
which dost somewhat harshly pierce the wall above that door,
I gift the inspiration deemed
to one whom talked less than he preened -
to one whom since has not been seen,
save in down upon the floor.
"Visitor," I exclaim, smirking – “blast from the past, quite a bore!"
This I say and nothing more.
Oh! Memories so nostalgia
No! I've not announced your death
It's your deeds
Not your elegy
It's your eulogy
I can't wait to stand by your casket
To say this to your carcase
When I can stand
And speak from my closet
Not till your eyes and ears
Are closed in death
Not till your nostrils are stopped
From this good omen
And your tongue is stocked
From having a taste of this offering
Not till you're planted
Like a seed that will never grow
Again for me to eat of its fruit
And drink of its wine
Not till I go about with bald head
When I can speak now
And be heard without white beards
Not till you grow wings and fly away
Beyond the shores of the clouds
Mum. I'll never cease to sing this song;
It's your heart there I know is safe
Saver than the cave
Sweet mother my sweet heart
The heart of my heart
You hatched the egg of my life
The greatest gift I can ever give to you
That is to give my heart to Christ.
Dedicated to V.A Aderounmu.
© Fisayo Aderounmu.2012
Get the bridle
aint suicidal, babe get the bridle,
i have to go a riding on me little horse today,
aint no infidiadel aint no Bobby Ridedell,
but me dials a little idle, needs a shave this half a day,
a terrifying slip halfway,
tween knees n hips,
an im sloshing in between an some betwixt,
with this cursing poor halfwit,
am I drowning in the quicksand,
yes that aint the half of it,
the crows are watching stately,
for my carcase to come lately,
for a little bit of chow,
from where they sit,
but starve the crows im gonna,
cos the dozer guy from Mona,
dug me out, he was the owner,
with his D12 called Tom Tit,
just jerked me out a bit,
wheres me bloody horse?
Don
Life as it is,
makes me imagine this,
like when Adam grabbed his rib,
and had a kid, (creation)
I'm passionate with statements,
like caption capturing the ancients,
You have to attach the strings of patients,
to change this,
person you are,
whose searching through stars,
at night,
the shards you find,
are like scars you hide,
to mark the sight,
of something new,
nothings true,
due to perspective's,
of separate conceptions,
reflective subjective-objective intentions,
reject this intensive compressed in obsession,
with lessons of life,
about a technician's mind,
in Egyptian time's,
we lived to dies,
encrypting rhymes,
in codes of philosophy,
the omens of prophecy,
have broken this poverty,
my emotions are property,
sold on the market,
like coal from a dark pit,
my soul is thy carcase,
starving alone,
bartering hope,
along the road we drive,
as common folk we die...
carol: they took my kiemona and my angelo(parents)with brutal-force and left me
for the janitors of the deserts to feast on my child wounded carcase. i live within
the hidden confines of a twisted and perverted place. my heart be not tainted
with hate nor my mind disturbia by the cruelties of the pasted hidious inflicted
fate. i merely await my future manifestation of a hopeful love of life and all its
splendor. why else would i have survive such deeds ago, which render me once,
the invisible child?
Cheapskate perfume soils sweat-strapped ambience,
Crippled, choked extractor fan despair,
Palms dripping moisture cling to greased pale hips,
Swaying on the shag-pile threading bare.
Urgent urge to strip her body down, take her there,
Mercy straining leash-growling agony;
The desecrate of love, sweet picture perfect face,
Rigours of ******, ransack and obscenity.
Frenzied trespass of liquid rosebud lips,
Seed shot trails upon her florid loveliness,
Eyes blind with seminal cataracts,
Rampage of a penile-bred excess.
Sick and stupid, strangled cupid,
Neck wrung until the lifeblood cools,
Discard of carcase and damn the morrow's judgement,
A king of fools whom Caligula rules.
The disintegrate of all my dreams grew fangs
And bit as hard as frost on stained glass panes,
Lynched upon a willow tree where hangs
The carcase of conjecture in decomposed remains.
I cannot slay it's lingering from my mind,
It creeps a stealthy creep then pops up grinning,
And wears your face manifested sweet and kind,
I sink in this attrition, drown in depths of never winning.
The pain gores like a rabid dog and tears
Strip by cruel strip from my shaken resolve,
And whines the roughshod fact that no one cares
My world stops dead and ceases to revolve.
If history and memory are all that you might be,
Why do the dead echoes of your being lay me low?
Why can't I inter you the way you buried me?
Why do I still love you, why do I still love you so?
In conclusion, you have fed me to the jaws
Of purgatory for those who grieve alone,
And live, I must, this sentence with no pause
'Till history and memory turn to stone.
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