Saltpeter Poem by Simpa Omoluabi

You must turn around to become a pillar of saltpeter
When ones do to smash our rare view mirror image of life
When mammoths of orthodoxy that should be extinct
Fill and refill our glasses with sand…
For them to smash or not to smash as they watch our sands… trickle
To their last grains, and then they come
For the turn over of our glasses
Turn over of our sand grains.. measured in their selfish fingers.

These extinct creatures are still extant by reason
Of certain crescent sickle-selfish lights
In self-seeking by which these should-be extinctuals
Govern states of mind
Of the most who lots of time have their feet
In burning pounds of salt mixed with the sand…
Knowing fully of this and play deaf listeners
To some weeping blind Heracles
Weeping behind some intricate rosebushes.

It's a never ending bend you come to
When yourself finds for yourself
That within yourself what you call
Your show of true love was sheer feeding of canaries
To dogs.

They fill and refill our glasses with quicksand of time
In their self assurance they watch, observe
As our glasses with quicksands of time trickle
And at the last grains they sigh satisfaction
And have our glasses turn over…
Sand grains of time in their selfish smelling hands
Like they've got the entire world by our hands of time
In the control of their selfish smelling grips
Holding our hands of time
Theirs are selfish smelly hands and ours are hour hands
In their smelly selfish grips.

What's the point of treasured out life lines in coffins
Under mercury lights of some deserted-scape?

My mind still and afloat
Upon anticlockwise musings of some bald eagle
Hanging a black jackal on an olive tree
And my mind still still and afloat listens
To a canary with cold feelings from heavy rain showers
Sing of flowers dying in their verses
Of verses less blooming with dead flowers
Verses less blooming with dead blooms.

They raise our glasses and toast with our glasses
Knowing when our glasses shatter or break
Out of them spill our sands of time spill our quicksands of time
In which they run their fingers through knowing
In human hiccups the measures of the sand-of-time are for sale
Not minding our glasses fragile as we are they are too
For the hour must come
That hour hand our hand that hour hand must write on the wall
Hour for the turn over of our glasses that the sands of time affirms
The extinction of these mammoths…

For selfish are men
That most men's goals they deviate
Into their selfishnetworks…of ‘God'.

When ones do to smash our rare-view mirror images of ‘God'
You must turn around to become a pillar of saltpeter
To be made into a match like lucifer, light bearing
To become some powder explosive for the truth
And be preserving of the things that make for our common satisfaction
Commonly for our common bellies.

Copyright © 2018 Saltpeter by Simpa Omoluabi