poeticjusticedaily's.Art.Blog

Title:- Dark Tunnel: colour mutations

I’ve added a bonus poem to my readers who follow and have subscribed to my blog. So sorry for the late update on chapter four (4) of my book “God is Lion and He Never Sleeps” written by John Azi Solomon

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             (one)

Rainy days prime close, an idle mind sweeps pass the sidewalks by the brisk quiet lawn, could here couples conversations and in their hushed tones and laughter, I could also hear a yellow humming bird giggle by the cafe on a redbud tree in bloom and the  deep calls out to the deep!

The fumes enclose, the vibrant walking city whose hours dread their fugitive feet’s, addicted to love and cocaine, fine women and wine, in short gowns in town by the brothels, Nana and Usma’u; when warm summer heat climbs  as a hunters glimpse of a hatching daylight – and the deep calls out to the deep

tomorrow wouldn’t be so far from now as each sit in the way of another either closely enflamed by fire or by gut, but the king’s sit too in the hours jaws grinning teeth’s and cowering for long on histories tell tale, the dark ambitions of war, black folk lore, women, palm wine and dark secrets unshared – and the deep calls out to the deep!!

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(two)

                        [i]

Brightly glistened a date in time, projections of lightly bulb yellow hump on the daylight december, of this simmers of shadows, sleek clay pots by the balcony lined up thought collapses like an artery dead beneath graves one finds routes on ambivalent musings of hope to lands unseen

By the greeneries of stuffy lilies, full sunlight and insects crawling and cringed spiders by the ends of the plastered ceiling, in the burning heat of time each paradigm shift is a parade of lights as truer and cataclysmic as muse is enchanting speaking of beauty our fallings through dark alleys

Hopes trigger dislodged fears into the cabin of stringent fears, the uncertainty of tomorrow’s meal in these streaking streets and corners, in the refugee camps, the cross and rivival haunting, survival and it’s dare meanings on the people’s stowed fate, having these sighting the storms on Niger

Pink rose, serpents crawl in the dark, berry shoots, algae by the coasts, almonds mute as the winds swoosh from off the shore, blind men sit by the bar shops to  get tipped a coin or ten cents could by lunch and five an alarming savings for a distant rainy day in june

These dark alleys and planes, trigonometric lanes, paint on canvas, rainbows and eclipses, the Platinum canvas on the eyelids and thoughts processes of the artist, the fear of missing a curve or the doubts in stroking a brush and living above the fears of death!

                     [ ii ]

The always hushed silence in the breath of every stranger journeying into a foreign land,  few personal belongings, two pairs of skin duvets, cold jackets and a revolver with bullets strapped on the waist and history smelling on his face, it feels so sudden and the saddest corners of the lighted lanes do mumble at night

Our detachment from plowing at the ridges of such early years, to ease and dicompose the taut shame of selling our cosmic space for starvation in the camps, the firmness and taut grit of nature repletes our origins where we would again be evolved and became immersed in the ocean and it’s roaring and shimmering chills and such galloping rites

Every now and then a verse would come like ghosts hunting around the courtyard in our country home, coming to lay back and forth, returning to the grave, unfulfilled and it is right to do good, but who killed them? Why are they in my dreams? Can i walk free with the dead hunting me in my sleep?

Imole Imole Imole it is time, sit and watch the light thrust into the galaxies, see where you came from son, from dirt and rubble to sit if grace and mercy permits the felony of folly by the cotton routs of Allen Saint avenue, a street where stars speak volumes and the hunters scream – I seek for you in the mist but you are far gone into depths as inept riddles, yet far gone, lips lay opened like a quarry of swans, tears flow like water

Everyone is Keen when the rain comes brooding like a pregnant pigeon, cackling thunders lightening the stretched land, there is something bewildering when the showers erupt hitting on the roof sheets, on the hitting moment when darkness hovers and jabs knack the walls going back that way in a smoking shell of defeat, the many who’ll walk lonely streets and fight for creamy biscuits in Allen street.

                          [iii]

You cast a dark shade of beauty from the remnants of the shooting stars firing sparkling yellow lights on a grey shadow by the wall and it’s wet mist

A dark shadow is near, the rivers tear in two’s, the waves come crashing and only the two of us had the same anxiety and fear

Family would be inside in warm clothes laughing, the jitters and final close intimate fights with reality, to be an absconder to the usual family rites, yanking frail

                           [iv]

A hi from a demon in so many sheets, a voice from the wind of outnumbered outcasts, the Shrivel silence of pain in a body in stripes

I am a long sleeve, I am a chain on slave legs years ago in the 1900’s, I am an arm in clean cotton and I’m sparkling on white!

I make cast aways in the ball room, I cast fear and hate in people, I am a demon! Brute and clean like a surfing up the sleeves!

I damn the just and the faithful, I am under the earth crust trapped and falling as egos and throes, I sink ships and I am a missile

In the bones of the disheartened emissary, I am demon! in the sheets and dark alleys, I am a flood in flight, I seize breaths!

                        [v]                     

Black scent of nature awake, a twirling indigo of peach and purple verbenas, the green entrenched natural plains afar off and the imitation of symbiosis, the biosphere and our true family- nature

Look at the lake on the walls that speak of people from the past, the burden of falling heroes in cut magazine papers, the bidding buffer in the out cast eyes of a likle black hustler on cold feet’s,

an enveloping sacrament of our presently lost identity in the face of the world; by the plasma clothed walls an embryo in coats of red fluids of water from where life streams, these bent torsos now sway

the drumbeats of every striking hit flares in loving firy nights, he lurks along the walls with the beggar in rag clothing; when the demon came blaspheming he mirrored it’s tail, scared and afraid it’s time elapsed, surfing quietly when no one noticed.

                     [vi]

Splinters magnetic brightly shine in the absent-minded lush quiet coast, such toss a lad endures and will unwind into sleep in the arms of a mother, her emissary and effervescent cuddle seems sublime as her cold eyes endure the tasks of motherhood and of he r outgrown feasible little fears. The floating palpable sanctity of remorse.

Perched on cicammore Walt Disney’s dream fair of romance and musing on Mickey’s cracking walls on cold snow attuned on the islands, when quiet days of drought foots near he is seen whimpering on and on, heartthrob imageries on arm chairs whisperings exposed in every character, a harbor of hope when every time the kid would imagine the worst, the year 1924.

The decline, the fall and the relapse of falling nation’s, the missiles set for grazing farmlands and domestic trade malls, unsaved cities buried in rubble just flesh and blood and bones, the savages walk in pig feasts and bloom at dinner parties, the smell of Asiatic lilly’s hover while in Niger the grains suffer blast hotter than the sun sundered by fiercesome talons on wit stunned banquets.

                       

                           [vii]

On the roads toughened bend like torsos bent on the wheels of willows, refrains from the days scrutiny, every blow a dashing sermon on the hill, and when I became still in knowing your silent breath on the roads stilt and bent, unwinding to our shores to you who is revealing and stands erect as corn stalks. Bomb shots at ankle’s fighting the wars at all cost.

                       [viii]

I came black from the womb bright like a gem not ready for the snow, cold hours behind untold cyclones. I am a prey for the blonde toothpricking oranges in the garden, fair, blazing, unburnt by the burning sun. I am a trail of sadness in the corners of the street burning like a building, shattering in smoke, dark and blind. I smoke trees carbonated in drinks, I am a gulley on the face and map of the horizon. I am a fallen tree in a burning forest. I am Africa, a crippled child lost in the abyss.

These are many roads I see in your eyes, many multicolored  from erotion, brown forgotten, fastened and hungered, tempted to be hidden behind tortured glass, she comes and when she does like a little cub in the wild. A lost one in the enclaves a slave. Find none of the sides of a flipped coin, toss me as the wind. Send me parts to the abortive heists entrenched in the wild forest – and the rough cold floors of prison cells. And when midnight came we hung as mosquito nets by the wall.

Earthen layers scotched, the fields a vast Brown dye on the heated surface – she lays bare chested when the implants recoil in her taut fetish Alberto and she allures like fumigates unleashed from the sky, deems the room red and yellow like flashing rockets trailers to Gaza. Love letters from gods turbulent in the song lyrics of nowadays, the threat of annihilation, death, one cowers like me under purple tulips, and red crispy red Rose’s sprawled under luminous lights, and resting still on the firm grips of grace and an early autumn sunrise.

                             [ ix ]

Every single hour I will be loving every caressing jab you take at me especially at 3:00am, those firm resolute eyes that inquires from eternities bowel’s drunk till ones soul with thee is satisfied.

                            [ x ]

The scary deep, the fossil years, on deaf ears and to the lying spirits submerged in the Oasis of generations, the old tusks who sell now on the Savannah’s banks, the redundancies of colonialism, her calls lay steep as sorrows, sublime in uniform, in trails of green and blue, the songs not all about blasphemy or the Pacific shores, the pacifist, the hunger, the hunter, the slave voiceless on dockyards laden to deep shores. As the deep calls onto the deep on frightful floors.

                            

Thank you very much for reading through my first published online content/book under the poetry genre in art. Enjoy! and I’d also love your feedback. Cheers! Don’t stop supporting my little work of art.

Cheers!

 

Love, from the author. Good-bye.