Momma's camera eyes
I saw blue memoirs fell from momma's eyes, as she looked into my brown retinas. Swiftly she removed my medicated glasses, a dominant gene I carved out from papa's bottled eyes. "Oh! sorry D!," She whispered! "Its just a matter of time new sores become old sores and grow to mature into scars" she cried as she looked into my eyes. Eventide dawned upon us like golden mist as I was flown into the nurses moonlit; in a bird with twinkling red optical, double paired rubber legs, iron facials. The nurses at stand dished us mother care attention. Ice dangled in her eyes. Momma is smiling joy painfully at me. As I stole
a look at her brown embattled face, I pictured her retinas glued to drenches. The ice now fell from her eyes. With my octopus years, my feet has trod this egg shaped earth.
And the world seemed to passed so swiftly on me like a shutter's speed. I could see the skyline walking on the tightropes of my memories, like flashbacks in a cinema film, laying on
this medic bed. My belly could only be facing down while my electrified toasted back kissed the wind escaping in through the casement.---yak!!!!
And the only mirror I could have afforded to reflect my per boiled back is my momma's pair of brown camera eyes, but here they are ice dank. I thought. It could be fun and warmly, laying on the pressing iron, left on the bed in our unisex room, after long being used by aunt Lydia. I couldn't tell its degrees with my brownie eyes. But my steamed back did, so it kissed it metal surface---and here we are, " In a toast of roastful love,' underneath nurses moonlit with
my mauve skin.
And the needles! o no! I hated needles. Two prickles a day!, yahhhk! my bum bum like Evans rickety bike. I heard Evans my best pal crying along in the neighborhood, while I was being rushed into the medic bird. With his grey coloured panties, hung on his waist like Tarzan l.
He did be jerking bitterly. I and Evans jolly good mates had known each other since the neighborhood old. His curly dark hair, and owl eyes tells you he is indian. After the nurse had painted my back with iodine, you could pseudonym it an artist palette. Momma said it didn't looked that bad, so I believed her. She tried to masque her tears to joy on me, as she sat on the metal settle in the medic, feeling my pain. My emotional pains.
But where is papa?, varnished like the harmattan, and even if he did showed up, you did see him like a pinky mist hung up the blue sky. Papa also had many scars, neatly seen within his emotions, you could tell by the way he ground
around in the residential, like a cyclone swirling a refuse dump. For his physical scars are manufactured on his dark face, by the fingers of his variant "Beauties". I could see about three different brands, I guess each were tatooed by his concubines, that leaves you with the idea of the numerals of his beauties. But I thought she was his youngest fairest aunt Lydia. Every twinkling ray, while at home, I picturesque steps, like a cat walking
in and out Papa's room, flowering around on that her long silvery speckled lavender gown.
The other two are liken to sudden rain, dropping on old California--Papa
But my momma, his aged woman, she really cared butter & milk. And she was always crying, I liked her eyes and disliked her tears.
When brawls firmed up its new fist, Papa
generated new sores from the battles of his "Beauties fangs" while the "old sores, grew to mature to become scars" Some in his emotions, while some on his dark-like handsome
stern face.
And as the referee receives multiple uppercuts too, when taekwondo goes gaga and metamorphosis into boxing. Your guess is as good as mine. A Cassius Marcellus Clay Jr anger fist.
My memories, they taunt me into candle night, while I still laid belly faced down this medic bed. And as my eyes faded, I fetl my skin creaked inside of me, and smoothened on momma's palms, as she wore them on her blue emotions.
Morning dawned on me as the palms of the sunlit tickled my retinas. It stole in gorgeously through the casement, as l laid on the medic bed. I blaze my gaze an anti clockwise navigation---there she sat sleeping, her vertebrae clinged on the medic metal settle, few strands of her hairs playfully canopied one-over- three of her physiognomy. Like an angel on guard, in trance with the Potter. I looked at my momma's closed moolit, and flashes of her cold memoirs bemoans me, as I digressed into reminisces.
Am an only oak that grew out her maple loins after a decade and half a decade of stretching out her hands towards heaven's tree for a fruit. As others, she cried, took a still birth position few sunlit walked, after their sigh On this planet.
"I don't know why it has to be my body." I overhead momma said last night. "Am like a mattress to his body he sleeps on, unmakes me at will. Riding my baked body like a machine grinding a meal, for pleasure for pain, they pseudonym it massage, while I wane under with brutality of blows." She cried! Some fist are liken to
a pen that writes on a blank sheet, and when the paper is full of stains and bleeding inks like age, he picks yet another sheet "w-m---" and continues with combo of magnitude electrons! Like a black horse on a creaky wooden bridge stigmatizing pains.
As blue memoirs fall from her eyes right down where I slept, I picked it up. My memories, they tingled me, like flashes of a cinema screenplay, I saw a field, goalkeeper in orange, a striker dressed in red jerseys, and a blue soccer ball shot up into thin air by the striker after raising and bouncing it incessantly on the green field, he tossed it. Though it didn't seem broken outward, yet wailing inside in silence as it falls at least for goalkeeper to pick it up. So am that goalkeeper, you go on ahead and guess who the striker be, no not Maradona or Pele Cos my momma is the blue ball. A victim of many deep silent nights yet she breastfed the hungry eyes of her suckling kid---poor me. As my laughter her resuscitation.
I saw a red rose, and I saw my momma, a red rose having many thorns on her petals. Some few bruised weakling spots, Yet she blossomed singing "silent nights".
I pictured her embattled face, and I saw a
brown nightingale, with a bleeding beak singing lullaby in broken tones, and though non can write down her lyrics yet tending to her nestling---with iced dank brown camera eyes, painted in the horrors of an African nativity, in the claws a taboo. If a woman crosses another man the gods are left to strike off her doom. But the man, a moonlit journey walker on other blank sheets, striding other lawns as he chooses,
but the gods ain't strike no mane So his taboo is but an illegal legal practice on nativity.
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