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Best Poems Written by Excel Chinagorom Michael

Below are the all-time best Excel Chinagorom Michael poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | Excel Chinagorom Michael Poem

Banana

Lets hold our bikinis
—a feast for the eyes, gym
when the monkeys giveaway
its farmland to draw nectars.

sweetness don't pretend—
I come to steal
an ecstasy,
to gamble like candles
in a terrible dark house.


J

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Winter

Your love is a yellow hue
do paint me this meadow
with delight from Dion's blues
pleasing the third quarter ear.

When it chirrups chirrups!
& rock my heart so fierce
do strum your gentle palms
& lips blushing pilgrims.

And in some mannerly devotion show
tread upon my winter seasons
unpleasing the envious autumn,
when the eyes is nothing without the Sun.

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Obianuju

I fear to tell you how much of your love
that has drown me into your lake—
I'm a body under water.
Each time i walk on the street
my body, a drumsticks playing itself
would feel the rise of sensual excesses
tingling the weak layers of my cells.
Should I tell you why I come out each morning to see you?
because my heartbeats recites in elocution
at the wordings of your songs
& I'll try not to escape the ligature of music
you keep preparing for me.
You devour my heart
I'm afraid to tell you.
I've wanted my diction to appease you, smoulder every ashes infusing your mind like coal to the pot,
but it keeps infusing francophone rhythm, broken vowels clusters & brittle brittle voice.
I don't know how I'll feel
If I thaw the instant gaze frosting
under the radiances of your countenance.
Maybe I'll sink into loneliness all day long;
why I travel to the dark house every night.
Do not frown at this poem I've become, obianuju
I'll no longer lurk privily like Cobra.
I've fortify my heart to harm you via my love
where we could get hitched in the wedlock of the church
reciting poems from song of songs
that spew out from the bosom of Solomon.

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Divertimento

You pop my heart     so heavily    to the rhythm of
                  “like a prayer”from Madonna.
You flare the stars at night
                    gleaming towards darkside.
You flame the solar sphere;     before you,
I became ichor.
You wade your way into heaven;
                         you're a goddess.

Night             with your scarlet lips, 
is untamed.
A fluid from your cup         is juicy
                          for it sends me
to cloud nine
        dreaming of us in a canvass of artwork
made by rosy poetry
                in a setting of dramatic show:
                                I, Suleiman
                                You, Ada
playing in Atlantics.

                          I come with a song,
                       make from it a dulcet medley
                       reciting how I found mathematics
at the doorstep to your heart;
my discovery of indices
sorting pleasures beneath your apartment
                              In a dark red light,
flaky as a clinker.

Woman, you must have       thought     the instruments
                                   to twang at night
into something that crawls to the paw of the gale
knifing my ears.               
                         call it an act of love
                         because at your feet
                         music ends and kick off.

                      My discovery of you is a quicklime
                      melding sacred love with holy kisses
                      over burnt and baked lies
without a draft of smoke
forming cloudburst of rue.

                 Allow me from your city stare
                 at roses crashing beneath your waist
affection that goest before your thighs
hallowed by thy bosom
into the gates of confession.

                Allow me to snog thee gently
                feeding on thy hipped blonde
                to your gratification
lounging my spearhead along your riverside
to stir, montarily, moaning
like the touch of flowers.

Tonight woman,
I bring you a song.
Like the sun, crawling to buzz the horizon
              I reveal to you the lips of a man
              wearing the colour of red for the
eyes.
Do not go up
swinging between the stars
for I without you is tradegies of baked pictures.


Excel Chinagorom Michael

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Elocution To Bitter Cola Ii

Tales and folktales binds 
the mind's eye about firmly, 
spearheading log of thoughts—
rock of words, after another
into bridges of unified force.

Father the ship on my head
fanning out memories between
the cracks of my torso why
I press myself under the sun
is s t r e t c h I n g to
kiss my toes after etching
a canvass of you in my mind.

If it is true that God restrict all mortals
from touching the personality of immortals 
then maybe, I've a prayer
to pour into my memories
from portraying and plucking gloominess
& grief that holds 1000kg of botheration.

#Excelwrites  #poeticrhythmn

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Echoes of a Regret After Engagement

Our hands were restless
holding detectives brooms
with hope of sweeping storms

And our isolation have been exchange
with ecstasies
lurking around medallion of ease
to wind off doldrums from our feet.

Alas! Our ears had forgotten their fiendish
songs
& sundered our head from our neck;
plucking sad remix with tobaccos pipe.

Shall we forget this brooms
that swept our joy, & dust our dreams
into the turbulent zephyr?

Shall we cook the ears
that sold our head to affliction
in the pot of its unruliness?

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My Beloved

[September: we mourn the existence of death that stroll 
towards father's eyes, but we'll keep outstriding this storm]

My beloved drew nectars from the stretchers
of my smile & was lifted.
in my ship,
she sails through the raging storm
& grief lost all hope of her.

My beloved sang me a song
the art of her hone voice
leaves my spirit winding for success
in the hands of god.

My beloved pours her heart
to be ravished by my Majesty
even when fortunes seems to shroud
his face from the atmosphere of lights.

My beloved write to hope a poem
sing him a song of 'strive'
that make me quell the storm
the universe boast of.

At dawn-shiny street
my beloved tune the rhythm of a distant pop
& my name was soundtrack by the lips of widowbirds 
& she rustle to the winds a lyrics of salvation.

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Guilty Pleasures

Girl, how many ashes of baked pictures have 
fought the scars you brew from affaire d'honneur
[our routinely arguments]?

Your sister heart fought the noisy lust
the untamed night hone on her shoulder
as she collect the dishes of mockery
& smashes it towards the fireman
that paints the tragedies of conflict.

Girl, when i missed you
I chew memories of you
wreath with enough rancour
that never made it into the pages of your heart;
the goldberg of my sublime tears.

Girl, will you stagger into my dream
& ruin the grief that wake before me
when I'm drunk with my favourite beer 
the chatter of 'i miss you?'

These guilty pleasure are taking hold of us
our children will be weeping from the future
with lyrics garnish to blare my ears.
Do the ever get to you
through the touch of the winds
knowing truly that we were wrong?

[Hold/h??ld;  transitive verb]

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Elocution To Bitter Cola Iii

Why slaying the stars
& rigorously binding their light
for listening ears under the mango tree
to frame folktales for midnight song,
make a geysers of yellowstone
carrying fresh fetch palm wine—
put their tongues to taste the juice,
to kiss the faces of roses.

I tell you, they aren't the equation
where xy=0
     the shape of a doughnut
     set orderly for rituals—
the contents of misery.

for their body won't be yours
to slice an orange
to fill your sac
after greasing their dreams with frost.

Details | Excel Chinagorom Michael Poem

For Boys Still Mastering the Wild Game of Love

Our mouths don't tell boys Iike us
how to play hide-and-seek 
under the shades of valentino love 
when we're just toddlers of roses
mastering the wild game of love,
and song of songs from Solomon's verses
whose megaphone had led to the altar lyrical rappers and love therapist.

We don't tell boys Iike us
that love is as simple as ABC or 123
rather a transaction field
where we still find it difficult to keep dealings-
or rather pronounce the phonetics /eì/, /kju:/, /ju:/, /æks/
when L is /el/ O is /âu/ V is /vi:/ E is /i:/.
This love is crazy!

We don't remind boys Iike us
to be masculine enough on adventures
to the mountainous sea-gods 
like Bowman sketching algorithm and skulduggery;
and fishermen's netts hook in the shallow waters 
yapping fishes inside love-hole.
Boys Iike us aren't mad.

We don't tell boys Iike us
to be far from maidens
that invade the gate of their heart
and we don't remind them how
to compose a love letter—
Boys should be the architect of her house.

But for boys Iike us
we find comfort on our poems and books—holy books
the arithmetic, the equations, the formulas
that had line up into a single file:
in its unsolved riddles
giving room for the brain to do manual labor.

And when boys like us are done 
being the adventures of our bliss,
we sow love in our poems that will 
leave memories in seventh heaven
because boys Iike us are flesh and bones.