Felix Bongjoh

Shisong-Bui, Cameroon
Felix Bongjoh
Shisong-Bui, Cameroon
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Missiles

(i)

Eyeball baked hot
by a jeweled young lady
and wrapped up
in a socket of eyelids.

And eyelashes
grow to fire a missile
to land crashing
its bobbing comet tail

at a cold fuel-filled brow
exploding aloud.

A man's deep core
bounces high
with a sprouting seed,

an igniting goldfinch
with wings brighter
than dandelion flames
skipping, jumping

into the swelling fire
that burns and bonds
only with sticky clay.

Holding tight brittle pieces
with a splashed gaze.
How does rock-sculpted
gripping traction
pull a cement-molded stare

to its wind-blown hearth
still lighting up
space expanding beyond
an azure patch of sky
slipping off a dark cloak.

(ii)

In the fat ape hands
of a cruising dusk
and fore-night's powder
spraying midnight wheels,
they roll fast to a cliff.

The man at the bar shoots
gin-filled eyes
to land on the lady carrying
a far-flowing sprayed lake

in her sun-filled gaze
to drown an air-hanging man.

If a gold star peek
from a sprayed sunflower
slips off a moony stare,
let it catch the sun

shot from a dawn
rising with a withered primrose
to hold only dusk together,

letting sunrise slip off
the rising smoky pole
of an unclear blinking morning.

But sun from the lady's eyes
is swallowed by a bush of stars
falling from night's moony face

creeping across
the man's caved-in,
but hollow stare
left to float like a dry leaf
in a strong gale.
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