Sunday 21 June 2015

the guitar


my ears catch a tingle on music
from the cascade of rhythmical springs
the springs of right rhythms…

but ….these are dirges
and the eyes are out of water…

ten fingers shed their wails
in rusty springy tears
a gaped cry from a gaped box
the lips are stripped of mourn…

i hear the songs of the greedy rich…
and the blood of wild wickedness

how they summoned the king
to punish and kill poor ilesanmi
for he sniffed the aroma of their lousy lots…

how they had and had
and had the added add
that had not been had…

the green greediness in our hood.


the rhythms fret a memory
flying in my moody mind…

these clustering of chords
hearse the coffin of iya alaro

the woman who warred for change…

and change did not do
the deed to be done to do
the deed that she did done the deed for.

our constant dream and disappointment…


then silence…
and a rumbling stormy strums

i hear the bitter sobs of adunni
the needle without thread…the belle

who wedded and wounded in the web
she was the lost loss
lost to the lost loss
that was already lost.

Our persistent passionately fine folly…


i hear fainted notes

and now deadness
in springy cuts and breaks

i lend a lengthy belch
from the feed of the food of sorrow
what ends the end
of the ending end
that ends the all of all ends

our candidacy in the scroll of time and death…

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