Let the rain pelt the guinea fowl however
It can never wipe spots from its feathers
And though ants queue up in line and file
Ranks and positions are never disguised
The length of trouser flaps and the wearer’s member
Sometimes being as inversely proportional as d and p
For anyone who volunteers to partake in an exhumation
Must be part of the burial to know which way the head lies
Yes, brassieres are only worn to inveigle rank outsiders
Every lover knows the cusp of his lover’s milk industry
Truth being like a well-developed illegitimate pregnancy
It is seldom coverable under the bushel of its very shame.
That which is comparable with the snake
Must be talked about in lengths and cubits
Just as its offspring can only be slithery
Be it young or be it old; alive or dead
For that toad on a daytime stroll is only fast
On account of the length and slip of its pacer
O yes, only animals that climb with teeth
Can tell which bark is bitterer than the other
Respect being as reciprocal as notation is nonsensical –
Oh, the stone has achieved divine levitation
And the poet like the egg scurries for cover…
Enough of it Mister Muse
Macbeth’s eyes fears a painted devil not
And so does my head of objects floating…
What goes up can even refuse to descend
For hot in the morning may be cold at eve
In doubt, ask the mother of the beg bugs
Like eneke the bird on interminable flights
In celebration of the modern poacher’s aim
I’m no neighbour to the grass-cutting rodent
Needing reminders to bite its way to freedom
With its matchless God-given anterior pincers
Nor the night vision bat hanging head down
Neither of the air nor of the ground
I’m rather like good old palm wine
I do not suffer impurities camouflage.
But I love my gorgeous cat most of all
It believes in skin contact physiotherapy
Like a toad backing its brother for gratis
Is only carrying the burden of goodwill
That selfsame golden word among words
That vanished from our lexicon overnight
As hostility hung its bag for a headhunt…
Aha!
The time is nigh to sex tortoises
So many female are out and about
Masquerading as male without pendulums
So must this song end
As abruptly as it began
Not unlike its very mnemonic
As it tottered to the thirtieth month
Lest I am caught in a mid-afternoon air raid
In this marketplace teeming with ravaged skins
Dead bodies, stolen wares and naked words…
My muse, my muse
Why hath thou forsaken me!
Even as the humbled general
Is yet to flee his exalted command
In search of a peace he rejected a priori
After the collapse of agreement Aburi
On which we vowed to stand till death
And the cream of our high command
Were lined up like renegades
Tied to drum-stakes and shot
To the popular acclaim of sabotage
By a mass stuffed on the propaganda
That even the grass they stepped on
Were potentially insidious weapons
In the hands of their commandos
Mere adolescents conscripted
And moved to war fronts untrained
Their predecessors having vanquished all
Mere traders, labourers and craftsmen
Matched by the declaration at Ahiara
Against a precursor allied forces
Of the USA and the USSR
Even as McCarthy ruled ok
In the burgeoning policeman
Of a yet bipolar world…
To thy pole O brethren
Jettisoned at home
Abandoned abroad
Those rejected by fate
Can only find solace
Within the inner self
Like when eternal vigilance
Was the price we paid
For our internal liberty…
Freedom for us – me and you
Is attainable foremost
In the our minds
Though warped they be
By mammon worship
Imbued by exclusion
From the mainstream
Of our national swindle…
Requiescat in pace!
| The New Gong Publishers of New Writing and Images |
 |  |  |  |