Like a child's toy stomped on by a vicious adult,
These images haunt...
It's no pribble when I insist that their mothers' breasts,
Sucked lame by gelid seasons,
...
(A poem in honour of Shell Camp. Dedicated to all teachers and pupils, past and present, dead and alive) .
So, what says the Morning Information?
...
New Moon:
through the dark foil of festered
clouds, it peeps,
a lone trinket of heaven,
...
In Biafra, when we drank from the tilting
cusps of dank leaves and washed with the spittle
of cassava,
the sun scorched like hell.
...
Have you read the note?
It speaks of the doom of the liquid element.
An inclement weather, grey, and with the fuss of a bleached lightning,
Besieges the tick of the clock.
...
When laughter comes between
the red gums of drought,
there's fire.
...
If you are licensed to love me,
Then go on and love me.
Do not wait for the moon
To remind you...
...
Obelisks and monuments
stand on this black altar of ashes
with plagues of scorn
deriding death...
...
Echoes of summons ring on.
With them, a sonorous clamour for painted lines.
The rim of night stretches and holds fast to
a colossal nocturne hung on furs-and-clouds walls,
...