A Hot Wall Poem by Felix Bongjoh

(i)

A sea on the wall,
a poster hanging down
a cotton cloud,

spatters its waters at me,
as I wriggle
out of my wetness

wreaked by hot
and humid air
itchy fingers scratching

and squeezing me out
like linen for
a line in the sun.

Spray me out
under the sun's flames,

but do not break me
into pieces
of a maize stalk.

(ii)

Wall standing over me
with a whip of hot air,
bow to my call
in this hot trench of a room.

Hang me on a line
to catch a thin breeze

and get stiff-dry
like a corn cob in a yawning
khaki husk

swallowing and gulping down
every bit of sun rays
in the wallowing sun.

In this bony afternoon attire
of thin brittle flesh,
every speck of me
is cut and scooped out.

(ii)

From a sky-sized screen
floating with waves of pixels,
a horse rider

on a tow path, hurtles
across a bridge
to the edge of my couch.

Hey man,
cruise and bump
into a red a cloud of death

down a valley
where a fire roars
to roast you up.

(iv)

Who's that dude
in the gulf course

shooting me
with sharp arrows
of a peeks,

as he spins
his swinging shoulders

to drive a shot
and pots a hole?

I'm not your caddie
man, I'm just a buzzing fan

growling at you
to steer clear of the sun -

and not burn
in the flames
of the gulf course already ash
and sooty smoke.