The Moth

Quietly sat I, pondering at mine table/

Thinking of magic and many a fable/

Room illumined by a solitary candle/

My fuddled mind had slowly begun to unbundle/

The window ahead was ajar/

And I gazed into night black as tar/

Wondering what evil contrivances/

Each man was carrying out against his acquaintances/

Unconcerned, was I, with this tradition/

Unaccustomed was I to bitter thought or malediction/

So with the next gust of winter wind did I shiver/

Shield my flame and pick up my quiver/

Not five words had I printed/

When a fluttering I heard/

And in flew a magnificient creature/

With eyes like rubies and wings of silver/

Amazed I was at this unwelcome visitor/

Though his beauty surpassed all splendour/

Held my gaze, did he, with circular dances/

Till he settled with even more delicate prances/

Thus sat he on the wall beyond/

And claimed my attention at one second/

Such that I wondered what my quill hath commit/

So my mind was aflush with ideas…Which is it?/

So i turned to face my visitor fully/

And inquired of him why he invaded my privacy/

But with disdainful air and impetuous arrogance/

His only reply was a brief wing dance/

Still I wondered, abashed as any at the spectacle/

Still I pondered what random miracle/

Hath brought this arrogant wanderer to me/

And he refused to indulge in preliminary pleasantry/

He sat on the wall, seemingly oblivious to my eyes/

Beautiful in colour and a palm-length in size/

Who are you, inquired I, and who seek ye/

Not the least reply or obeisance made he/

Sink then, did I, into the cushions of my seat/

In a kind of mute and submissive retreat/

Gazing at my comely visitor with wings of silver/

Another gust of chill…Another shade of winter/

At least, continued I, if you care not to say your name/

I am Magnus, Poet of Olympian fame/

I am known for my works of splendid artistry/

Colourful words and meritorious oratory/

Unimpressed was my visitor for he faced the ceiling/

Making me feel more a beast than a human being/

With my libraries of poems read as far as timbuctu/

Surely this feathery friend must have seen one or two/

Perhaps he was sent by the gods to serve me as muse/

A gift from the spirits which I dare not refuse/

So I watched him with keen eyes and pensive breath/

And heels chattering upon baked earth/

For minutes, not one, not two, not three/

I watched him with feelings of subdued complicity/

No word said he and no wisdom learned I/

He cannot be from the gods, said I/

No! Perhaps he was sent to me by old man Wiggum/

Who ridiculed my work and said it was his modicum/

Sent to dissuade me from completing my thesis/

In castigation of his poetry of regular faeces/

Cunning old man, I’ll be the end of you yet/

Still my wall-bound friend stated not the bet/

Speak to me, I implored the ruby eyes/

Speak to me and abandon this disguise/

Fury welled up in my poetic soul/

Ignorant i was of my role/

In this drama of quietness and guile/

My mind was aroil all this while/

I picked up my paperweight and hurled it at him/

It bounced off the wall and in me, I welled up steam/

Tell me, I screamed, tell me who you are/

From whence comest thou, near or afar/

Tell me why thou sittest upon my chamber wall/

Without a word of greeting, not one at all/

Tell me why I speak and you do not reply/

Regarding me in silence with your wonderful ruby eye/

Still he sat there, quietly without movement/

To my outburst he made no single comment/

His silver wing never flitted…not once/

And I needed a conical hat. I was a dunce/

I reclined in my chair like a forgotten child/

Eyes still crazy and hair still wild/

Mind not as calm as it was moments ago/

Then I made up my mind. My new friend must go/

Sadly, do we part, said I to the silky wings/

I really wanted to talk to you about many things/

Advice you not to fall in love/

Sing to you songs from above/

so leave me now and never return/

Wander to another place where a candle still burns/

Depart from me now and set me free/

My heart will not be broken by a being so wee/

At this he fluttered to the air once more/

In coloured flight…not one but four/

He did his circle dances and flew to my table/

Close to my table, where the candle burnt stable/

Into the air went he again in coloured flight/

With every circle, my heart jumped to a greater height/

He danced around the flame in dazzling entr?e/

Glassy eyes in an eternal parody/

Just then, he wandered too close to the hot/

And he fell out of the air like a bird shot/

Fluttered a little bit in the hot wax below the light/

And drowned to my horror and fright/

Crazed, I dashed away from the chamber/

Screaming the name of the manager/

My friend hath died in there! The sorrow! The grief!/

The fresh air outside…the quiet…the relief!/

So sat I upon the stone carved fountain/

And thought of my friend again/

I prayed for him…I did… Or did I not?/

I know I prayed for him…for what my friend was worth/

===========THE END=============


Rectal Salute

??Fellow patriots…synchronize your assholes. Let us pay the rectal salute. Let us bless anal pleasure.

Blessed be…Blessed be the shit, literally. Blessed be the faeces. Blessed be the yellow ones, dark ones, the green ones. Blessed be the kaleidoscope of murky matter. The last vestige of breakfasts past.

Blessed be the morning dung; steaming against the cold ceramic of the water closet, dreamily digested food and sleepy undigested dinner from last night’s feast. Blessed be the lunch shit, in case you missed the morning prayer, firing away under the blazing noonday sun, or not. Blessed be the supper shit. Simple.

Blessed be the man shitting without abandon on his ancestral farmland, bleeding a little from the extreme pleasure of rectal traffic. Blessed be the other man, shitting with care to avoid the fart-like rumble from being heard a mile away. Blessed be the priest in the holy shit (I wonder if they do shit, under all those clothes). Blessed be the one with the running belly. May he shit in peace.

One Nigeria in Shit-nity. Blessed be us. Blessed be the presidential shit-tourage. I love the grandeur of our geographical shitterritory. Blessed be the Senatorial Shits that run the affairs of this shitty nation. Let us pass gas 21 times in military salute! Ka-boom!

We would be nowhere without shit. He who works must eat and he who eats must shit. Let the shit pile up until the country is buried alive. Long live the shit. Right to life… To live is to shit, to gain anal pleasure from the pseudo-peristalsis of the rectum and the mathematical accuracy of the anal sphincter. Like heartbeat. Shitbeat.

He who has strength, shit! He who has no strength, pass faeces. But one way or another, you and I must shit! It is our right.

Blessed be the shit…Literally.

Words To The Conscience

The bellies of hades remain unfilled
Fed by the boats of charon
Fuelled by man’s hate for his brother
So we descend slowly,lowly animals, one by one

We will never get along
For centuries we have murdered each other
Man to his kinsmen, murder
Death traded from one man to his brother

Why should we stop now?I wonder
I believe the last person remaining on this earth
Will kill himself to keep the tradition
But until that last death or last birth

God bless our souls and direct our hand
That we may bless instead of smite
Strengthen our eyes that we may see
Its not all rosy behind the light

Song of A Salesman

I am the used goods salesman
And my deals are very good
Implore you, buy all you can
Better deals are scarce like food

My articles are still the best
Not to mention very cheap
And you can choose from the rest
Thats why they’re in a heap

Look at these shoes from china
Or these trinkets from Egypt
You have never seen diamonds finer
Or a necklace more equipped

That dent is nothing but design
And I’ll be paid in cash
Now, begone with you, Ensign
It is deep in my sash

Now let me await another customer
And rhyme to him as well
I will replenish my stores next summer
While my pockets do swell

I Envy The Moon

I envy the moon
The luminous orb in the night sky
For he never gets lonely
Never does he cry

He needs no companions
On his nocturnal ride
He doesn’t ever whimper
When no one is by his side

He is so unlike me
Who needs you by him
Who feels insecure when alone
And on insanity’s brim

I’ll never be the moon
For I love you true
And though I envy Mr. Pale
I’d rather be with you


Sitting in the death-hallowed halls
With soft calls of patient whimper
I experience a calming ond a humbling
And a joy that my body doth prosper

They will take my money and pierce my skin
Tell me its good for me make me pay
Everything I dread is in this place
And that is why I’m here today

This building was put here to make me thankful
For every moment I spend in good health
As a potent reminder of the fact
That a hearty smile is better than all health

So I visit to keep this in mind
And I seek God’s face in avid prayer
May I never lie in any of these beds
May my angels never tire

Dead Man’s Bay

Land, ahoy! The waves make way/
Bend our sails to DeadMan’s Bay/
Ye blooming cockroaches, bend yer backs/
Let Davey Jones crawl beneath our tracks/

Fourscore years we have been at sea/
Condemned by greed but none to see/
The Sun our friend showers us light/
Even when he shuts his eye, we row by night/

Gather the sails into wind and tides/
Race to the bay where life abides/
Leave your flesh, let your heart be thine own/
For the adversary we face takes men down to the bone/

So, row, my men row with thy might/
Up there, dear sun, refuse not thy light/
Our journey is nair over, mark me words/
By cannon, and cutlass and clashes of swords/

Today we sprint for our final sojourn/
Today, dear land where we were born/
The mud, the dirt, the warmth, the earth/
The women, the mothers, the love, the death/

Row, men, row… And row again/
Like rhythm of the clockwork, twist again/
DeadMan’s Bay, here we come/
Open your jaws for a hero’s welcome/

Lessons in Two

The old man spat the words at the flame/
With flickering health, he gazed straight ahead/
Barely feeling the firm hands that cradled his frame/
He laid back and lolled his head/

My son, said he, two things do avoid/
A lying tongue and a decietful face/
The first is a straight road if with it you toyed/
The second is a mask, no matter the case/

Two things make my skin crawl/
A person who lies and a person who steals/
Greed will persist but you must not fall/
For covetousness may be sweet, but in the end, it kills/

Two things, my son, you must attempt to do/
Be kind to every person that you do meet/
Raise your family and make them love you/
And work your skin off to make ends meet/

Two things shall exist, mark my words/
There will always be bread and always be meat/
But look not, my boy, on the tables of Lords/
but cling harder, to our Kind God’s feet/

Two things shall he grant you, and you must retain/
Life, until he decides to take it away/
Against this, you must not complain/
For he granted you Choice, to make your own way/

Two things must you do while yet alive/
Be grateful for every second you breathe, my boy/
Make sure your fingers number five/
Hold nothing back, not even your child’s toy/

Two things, now, you must do for me/
Turn down that light, it burns up my blank eye/
Lay me down to rest, let my bones be/
With that he died, with a final sigh/

Philosophy of Fools for Wise Men

Who says I can?

Who says I can get up this morning? Who says I can look up at the ceiling… The same ceiling I looked up to last night… And believe today is gonna be any different? Who says I can make a difference? Who says that difference will be any different from any differences a different person has made? Who says I can get up in the morning and smile at every face and grin at every joke and ignore this pit inside of me?

Who says I can?

Who says I can believe? Believe in the fairy tales, they tell me. Believe in the fabulous tales of daring, they minister unto me. It helps your transition from one tenure of incarceration to another. It helps the wound that you continually tear in the cosmos with the razor-sharp existence you lead, the Reverend tried to tell me. Who says I can read the huge book of tales of holy men of days of old he placed before me?

Who said that?

Who says that the voices in my head are right or wrong? Who says that this white room with the padded walls and the high ceiling and no door is not a prison? Who says I am not bound in chains, shackles and manacles? Who says my freedom is not given to me to serve as bondage? Bondage in disguise? Who is the feckless fool who said that?

Who speaks to me?

Who speaks to me? Who is that voice that I hear? That musical voice of timbrels and tambourines? Who is that infernal liar who regales me with stories of fictitious people and gods who have risen from this nadir of excitement? Who is that voice that craves belief and dishes out hope…? Hope that it may yet get better… Or worse.

Who speaks to me?

Whose voice is that? Whose voice is that that lulls me to sleep with the ambrosia of the gods? Feeding nectar to my soul and making me realise that my craft is my only panacea. Teaching me that the only cure to my mental malady is the words that I write? The monumental paradox. The cure to being mad is actually being mad. Who teaches me these things that have elevated me to godship an scares the humans so much that they imprison me in a white cell with no door?

Show me who you are!

Yon’ Quiet Place

All roads, how so ever they deem to diverge/
The wise man told me, lead to Rome/
But when the sojourn nears the edge/
We revolve our hearts and head on home/

We turn around to our solitary huts/
With the low-hanging eaves and warm heaths/
Our homes we must enjoy, but/
Only after we have traversed the earth/

We all belong in that quiet place/
Where the voice of God can be heard as thunder/
That quiet noise, that silent grace/
Where silence lives in resolute wonder/

I shall depart from Rome at once/
Thither to my shell, the human mollusc/
We shall return home to dance/
Upon the planet’s diverging disc/