Ma Belle Reine

Meadows swaying in the golden sunlight

Amidst quiet bird calls and fluttering dragonflies

Beauty unrivaled, she kisses my fancy

Every second she crosses my thoughts

Lonely Brook and bubbling stones

Lonelier koi weaving between swaying weeds

Every smile is a trip to dreamland

Remind me what wood nymph you are

Ever ringing witch of sweet minstrelsy

In my heart, you rhyme with every beat

Never have I wished for anything more

Ever dauntless; until God’s will undoes us


Song To My Beard (Music of The Clean-shaven)

O beard, you elusive beautiful mask

Adornment for my lower jaw

You frame my lips in handsome shade

And conceal any unwelcome flaw

I wear you in different shapes

Sizes and even different short lengths

I stroke you in my idle moments

While weak or peaking in strength

Alas, you now must leave me be

For you are a subtle waste of time

You stop abruptly after a while

While before you grew sublime

I needed you to be longer

But you stopped short of my dreams

And would never move an inch

Despite the mix of creams

I will bid you Godspeed

Amid waves of Gillette and razor buzzes

No longer will I feel you

Warm and prickly and fuzzy

O beard, prickly adornment of my visage

Fall from here, depart from my face

My handsome masque, my beautiful craze

Fall from here with all your grace

Brunus (April, ‘18)

The Jester

Look as he lies, quiet and serene
Eyes shut with that queer smile
Now, troubles, where have you been?
Can you no longer trouble this man awhile?

He lies staring through lids
Shut at the wise old sky
Surrounded by wreaths and orchids
But their beauty trouble not his eye

Through watery curtains
They dismay at his calm
In grey and dark attire and sequins
Heavy glasses and quiet psalm

They say to me “do not stir
Do not make a sound for he rests”
My reply is a hearty sneer
For surely from the grave, he jests

This is a man, just deceased
He has gone to be with his maker
He is no more within this
Hunk of meat and bone and blubber

Yet behind watery curtains
And hats with beautiful feathered crests
They hush me behind those sequins
But he, from beyond the grave, jests

Song of Vengeance

Our God has delivered our enemy into our hands

Multiplier of our dead… Destroyer of our lands

Our mothers have cried

Huge tears of bleeding sorrow

Mourned the pillaging of the sacredness

Of our innocence

Their tears sowed the crop

That our souls now reap

Our mothers mourned

Their dead while we danced

Chanting hymns to our long dead

Bled by the great destroyer

But on we danced

Trying to forget the hate

That ran in our veins


Our God delivered our enemy into our hands

Multiplier of our dead… Destroyer of our lands

We are born of hate

And we thrive by it

Toil we may away from this truth

But like the sure roots of the oak

We are tethered by our nature

We seek our foes

And where we find none, friends

And where we find none, deities

And where we find none, gods

Our God has delivered our enemy into our hands

Multiplier of our dead… Destroyer of our lands

Now we dance the dance of vengeance

Against he who made us dance

For the song of the owl

Is not heard when the sun lives

Brandishing weapons of vengeance

We dance with sure feet

Around the fire kindled by kindred hatred

Screaming in ululations


Our God has delivered our enemy into our hands

Multiplier of our dead… Destroyer of our lands

Blessed be…

Our God in all his splendour

Our protector and benefactor

The one that caused the Brook

To bubble with food and fish, look

And praise his works, mighty one

The only one above the sun

Blessed be…

Priest and messenger to our Lord

The face of the unknown we can afford

He who dines with the spirits

We hail thee… For this kindness

We who have not slept thank you

We who deny rest praise you

My God has delivered my enemy into mybhands

Multiplier of my dead… Destroyer of my lands

The Sage in a Rage

I awake…I am in a rage… I have to do damage to demonstrate my rage. It’s funny to see at my age. A sage in a rage doing damage at an old age. I see you laugh at my fits of rage that arises to a stage that I must give birth to a page that points out the system of my rage.
I wake in a rage in my cage with people from my village coming around…smiling,pointing and laughing at the sage,in a cage,in a rage. My age gives of the power to pillage and destroy and wage war against the village. Do damage,throw down and cause haemorrage.
I scream at the top of my voice,calling to the feet of the earth to come and like the Rhino,stamp out the flames of my rage.
At this stage,my cage bears such marks of my rage that the people of my village cannot believe that the sage at this age can wage war and cause so much damage to his cage on a page but this cage cannot hold this sage down so the damage and carnage will never cease because the chains can never hold down this sage in a rage.
Come and see the sage’s cage where he did wage war on the forces of bondage and came out victorious. A wonder to this age.
I had to paint my image as a sage to alienate me from the scrummage in my lineage. To encourage me not to look like the average garbage or the spillage from rubbery leakage.
In those moments of rage,I held you hostage to my advantage,leaving you wondering:WHAT IS THE LINKAGE BETWEEN THIS SAGE AND THE GODLY HERITAGE?
Sipping mugs of alcoholic beverage or eating plates of raw cabbage will not give you the leverage you need to understand my language.
I know you have tried to guage me by different means of espionage,but my hermitage is duly concealed by herbage and green lush foliage.
These days, I am a mirage. A wandering image that thrives off your shortage of knowledge and perhaps ample storage of ignorance… I will sabotage your mortgage,swapping you,leaving you in my cage,and covering you in my page.
This is the image of a sage in a rage,who will not be stopped or distracted by cleavage or bondage. Any attempt at the stoppage of my colossal image will erupt in a disabling display of my volcanic rage.

My Identity

You want to know my identity? You tickle my risibility with the apparent gravity of your inquiry. Well, maybe my perspicacity will treat your abnormality and hostility as insecurity; but the clarity of your activity can be judged a lack of lugubrity, racuity, or better still, laxity in the performance of responsibility.
I am a gentleman of utility, an entity of dignity, modernity, sanctity and virtuosity. A trinity of nobility, sanity and perpetuity. Continuity down in human form. I am a celebrity from a renowned university. My versatility and vivacity accord me notability and viability. Don’t you dare doubt my dexterity. My volubility gives your cerebral viscosity the appearance of voracity. Vitality or agility of posture has scant to do with my tangibility. You’ll have to be witty to follow my ambiguity.
If you know the validity of my personality in this vicinity, you will not possess the opacity or stupid tenacity to question my authority or veracity, and you will know I have the audacity and ability to commit any atrocity in this community. I guess my perspicuity has befuddled your mentality and overwhelms your capacity to comprehend my paternity. That’s the immunity I enjoy in this society. When I come around, it’s festivity.
All through the eras of humanity, there was never any equality or equity. All we had was one party forced to humility, captivity or density by the polity of another. Then you think because it’s your city and your facility and you are majority, you have attained complexity. But the futility of your pomposity is rather stupidity and it fills me with pity at your vulnerability. Your legality and availability depends on our amity and my hospitality. I’m giving you the nitty-gritty of the monstrosity of your iniquity so you’ll appreciate the unity in my purity and neutrality. No matter your quantity or multiplicity, my quality and superiority will always marvel and defeat you till eternity.
Your weak malignity and affinity for vanity also stains your posterity, giving you conformity or uniformity with immorality or rascality always rushing with optimum velocity to the maternity at every opportunity. In clear visibility of this whimsicality and disparity and negative publicity, how can you now rush up to me to claim sorority or fraternity? It’s profanity! Profanity wreaking calamity!! You sit in awe of my masculinity, talent generosity and multiplicity. That’s why I won’t let your imbecility stain my virginity or nativity. We have no compatibility.
But this is reality. Call it a verity or the unanimity of sincerity. In the rarity or scarcity of necessity and prosperity, the gratuity is proclivity or propensity towards propinquity or gaining proximity with popularity and felicity. You are gaping at my flexibility and selectivity. This is syntax, my friend… Syntax of a deity. Come closer.
Just for the sake of curiosity, your similarity with mimicry, my acceptability amongst other things, I will accord you the satiety of integrity. But any pugnacity will be treated with utmost severity or sagacity. I need propriety. In view of any adversity though, I will not condone any pusillanimity, else, I’ll treat you with alarming acidity, anonymity, ferocity and animosity.
It’s under probability though, just a possibility that your priority will be below till infinity because of your cerebral porosity, but your perversity in this principality or municipality must be history, because, in this cavity, I’m the ALMIGHTY.

My City

I know this City. It is our City.
I know its alleys of anguish and its putrescence
Every passing day, the future gets a little more blacker
Our lives will be ended by cannibalistic acts
Carried out by one of us

Every passing night, one of us will die
Murdered by a friendly foe
The deaths will only stop
The day we all are dead
This is my City. I know this City

The City is afraid of me. I feel it
I feel their eyes on my neck, stinging me
They watch me with apprehension
I can taste their bile, their putrid sweat
I know this City. It is their City

Tonight, one of them will die
Retribution has come to stay
If Revenge is a dish best served cold
Put on your Sunday finest
Its time to feast

On every pinnacle, on every spire
Tales of malignity will be heard in every Shire
This is my City. I hate this City


Dance with me round my higgledy pot
Crookedly, miggedly, figgedly got
Rhyme with me to an eerie force
As I unroll my tablet of curse

A curse on leaf, sea and wind
May evil winds blow sails behind
Leaves may crumble, quiver and fall
But I will no better curs call

A curse on stone, rock and tree
To swap their natures… Oh, spidweldee
A living stone and a rocky tree
Will make me merry, kind and free

A curse on toads, a curse on frogs
Bats, dogs, dry wood and burning logs
Dance around my figgedly pot
The night is young, the fire is hot

A curse on owls, two more on snakes
Let my words defeat the brakes
A curse on sleep, one too on slumber
A curse on magicians and abracadabra

A curse on visitors, late at night
Cursed moon and star, withhold your light
Seventy times seven plus ninety seven
Dance until the night is even

Curses upon the sticks and the stones
Thrown at me to break my bones
May they land upon the head
Of the throwers and kill them instead

I could rhyme from now till june
Spewing curses from shore to dune
But dance ye round my higgledy pot
Crookedly, miggedly, figgedly got


I have seen the filth in their minds
I have witnessed the sin they give sanctuary
They now have nothing else to hold back
How do they hold the flag to piety

The loose cloth and choiceless company
Residing in shanties and mental prisons
Prisms of the mind that poison their souls
With the primordial soup…shameless persons

Their sins have possessed their hearts
Now they remain with the scum of our earth
The ague of the world…pestilence of conscience
No more shall they know the pleasures of good death