She Wears My Skull
The door was slightly ajar,
carved between the coscia.
Inside was moist, yet slippery,
but unseen was most of it.
The one-eyed twin, swinging on the tender rope of adrenaline, was far from limp as it burrowed in,
searching inwards with a consistent, yet meditated attack.
The other closed his eyes, denying the breath of the ‘awakening‘.
He closed them again as the streak came to a close.
His twin bowed into a flaccid wreck.
The Painting
I love to paint her in my head,
in her birthday suit,
her unwritten prose gazing at me like blackheads,
but I feel the sting down there.
I walk with that painting with a smile,
watching her, still, wear my skull between her thighs, and hers between mine,
her derriere flapping like ducks before midday.
I take a thousand shots so I could remember in the dusk of it
that I can’t get enough of her moist.
Go, where?
Everyone is getting out of town,
who do I know?
A dollar mint or a leftover?
Where do I go?
Whoever is left behind is not a tenant,
the bills over there are for criminals,
so they’ll say
But I have to go,Asia, or to the West,
Denmark with a pack of pink,
Rwanda is calling, so is the zest,
to make more money or parry the dink,
I’m glossing over the same measured flour of thoughts,
underneath me is rotten milk,
no sailing boat or flying guts,
just here touching the ceiling silk.
The world knows, no,
not a word says go,
bottlers demonised before they walk
towards the sentries noon, where they’ll talk.
Interregnum
This phase is called__ what-not,
the debrief of a tsunami president,
who shook the earth of his country and left with flags flying on his arms,
the ground shook but nothing was raptured,
many things were enamoured to it rather,
A single plant with a dozen burden hanging lovely.
This phase is called__ don’t die yet,
where illegitimacy is crowned with the tail of an octopus,
heads rolling to the razor toes of ‘he who wanted it,’
the furore morphs into a wailing-amazement,
a beloved cast of forgotten angels,
waving and clapping from their crust,
it’s a sight to behold when the blood dries off on the monolith.
This phase is called __there is nothing left,
just the flakes of bitterness hanging by the rust,
the door swings open and nothing meets it,
corn cobs and ventilation,
a mourning mother eating her son’s rags,
her legs hidden in the remnant of home.
This phase is called the__ lizards tail,
Once a thing.
– Fortune Omosola
