Smudge Of The Stupid Things Said And Done * Poem by Niki Nicholas Nkuna

What’s said by poor Johnny receives all kinds of hot and cold air
Same like his deeds, receives all kinds of hot and cold air
Poor Johnny, can’t see the faces in all their various masks
Flailing hands but big bodies whose frame protrudes by the sides of the tree trunk

Looking back and front or sideways nothing to trap
The game’s simply jumping over the trap back and forth
Fading sound by the turn of faces and squirrel withdrawal of hands

Poor Johnny’s utterances and deeds igniting the amplifiers
Masked and mockery faces
The hot and icy winds slowly stripping him to steep slope zero
Ears blocked by the wail of the unkind wind and amplifiers
Except for him to catch the feign slow dying voices of sting
The chop echo subsiding with the slow death of the poor tree

Oh, poor Johnny,
Dare to sing or dance, all would be measured
A tape would soon be strewn in the blow of the unkind wind
Respectable wall stroke lightly by the swing of the pendulum
Wall sure to fall by the millionth strike

Same faces spewing hot and cold air
Poor Johnny feeling the brunt of the smudge
Real faces often hidden behind the façade tree in seconds of turn
Beautiful faces backing poor Johnny to utter more
Of the stupid things and deeds
Sometimes he would face ugly faces
In seconds of rage with no audible voice
Sometimes lights would flicker warning him to no avail

Poor Johnny, stupid things said and deeds
Driving him long over the precipice
Suspending him safely in the air by the conscious strip
If not hanged to dry
Like a wraith walking towards the two strippers who stripped him naked
With hidden faces, the rest horde of the dyads stupefied
By the man about town in the swank
Warming to the smiles of the apparitions
Often overshadowed by the dull masks

Unaware of the pain whence it comes
Walking on air nothing untoward he believed
Except the drag of the occasional pangs of nature
Walking in the rain of rubber hammers
By the rise of sun to sunset
Amidst the blow of hot and icy wind
Somnambulism like a skeleton
Bare bones, feeling no blanket of flesh or clothes
Except assured by the highs and lows of nature
Cadaverous face receiving all kinds of mock in the back
Behind the tree in masks of happy smiles and dull faces
Many years of dress and drag would pass vice versa

Poor Johnny trudging on, living in hay and yore
Alas, the masked faces finally had raised the placard of dawn
Poor Johnny‘s fury too late for the bones wouldn’t combine

N Nkuna,16 May 2013