Audacity

Ochuka Talking:
How can time heal, if time is wounded of itself?
These clocks have gathered moss,
look at their souls,
aren't we all all paradise lost?
Feathers growing through stretchmarks of graves,
reminded that to rise,
to rise we must remain
subtle in imagination
but dare-odds stuck against
the unruly hero moments of life?
But what's time separated of itself?
I still,
I still break a piece of my soul
and throw pellets
into my bloodstream full of sharks,
making even the dangers of derangement,
the audacity to defy clarity,
the thick posthumous
satires of old forests
rotting on the walls of home!
I still walk to flower shops with a burial overdue.
I still, love like God's menses are in the morning dew.
Eroded,
peeled off wrinkled raisins and black-eyed pea.
And with a backcross test,
I still self-preserve,
self-destruct,
shelve these bars,
gravy batch,
I still drip... drops,
moon-clots of a widow's sorrow.
There's no tomorrow.
Today is infinitesimal.
Round the clover
like a sad butterfly parking for its funeral. Yesterday is gone.
Body of salt and a life wide of wounds.
These questions.
Each petal, pedals an arm of god.
An army crawls,
rebels turn these manifolds.
Manifestos. Money, payroll.
Unchain the Django.
Totems & Guns,
land and votes.
Redeem your soul
without the cadaver on the cross.
But see
I have been loud about the silent nights, lonely.
Drowning, deep.
Dying to have known.
This is Mike written on woods.
I am. Because I am.

Jodeci
Trivia, the candlelight vigil
fierce in the heart of raging winds
Unplug the cables
"What are you afraid of?" Question
"Bondage."
Answers self afraid of itself
The spotlight is hollow
not charming as the influence of subversion
So we 9-millimetre
Burst brains afraid of the crying picture

In valleys
of unstoppable doubting
Mind is my instrumentalist
I dare, gods for their sick humours
I am. Rare.
Sublime pair of abyss. Breathing dragonfly, fire. Comatose, and I re-fuse to give up.