Felix Bongjoh

Shisong-Bui, Cameroon
Felix Bongjoh
Shisong-Bui, Cameroon
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Following The Blast

(i)

Rock-breaking thunder
ground into a roar
and left to slice itself
into jerky howls.

Trailed by the groan
a lion has never made,
when times growl
and cut air with gnashed molars.

And hisses fly out
with lime slashes of lightning
shredding air and hairs.

And the world crawls
with a spine's legs.
And the world's silenced
bones are piled

to be blown off rolling
into a hissing flow,
when red hollows glow.

And bumps dress up
strayed men and women.
And face hills grow
To heights nobody can climb.

(ii)

I've not yet died
and dried
myself to a freeze
with a hot piece of sun.

Still charring me
in my flattened silence,
splayed like air
unclothed to a buzz.

So have you not,
only half-dead,
as you hear me
in this stony-faced world.

Built of broken rock
ground to the rising powder
and dust of death.

Grilled to flying cinders,
black tits over fumes
and smoke,

as a latex flying mat
draws itself out
into alabaster wings
to build a horizon
not standing on poles,

but springy heron legs
flying over a lake
stretched into a river
flowing with a red flounder,

as squiggles of shadows
bump into tumbling
silhouettes building night
with flowery stars
on large-winged shoulders
bawling out:

Here comes the world again
from a chalice's mouth.
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