The Poet Has Died!

 With no warning to the silent air,

 the bell forces its grieving voice to the serene space

A big noise sounding like nothing but doom on drums of ears is heard

The sound is absurd,

carrying final breaths of a man

 on his death bed, the resonance is bad

The atmosphere grows tense,

 the empty space is sad,

only the yet to be felt pain is glad

“It’s not often that they take pleasure in such delicacies. Now to thee my unborn: learn to relish your suffering, all experiences are experiences and thus, they deserve to serve their purpose, don’t be selfish as yet”

The pain speaks to more pain to be born

 when they all get to hear the news.

They all know this;

the once shinny and whimsical with magical songs bell,

now corroded by the careless hands of time,

 rings only when this tangible reality has run out of room for a radical dreamer,

a soldier of invisible boots

with musical laces humming the bitterness of truth heard only when the now bedevilled messiahs dance in their sleep, the bell rings only when angels take off their halos to ornament with luminous kindness the path of a deity that penetrated more heaven secrets than them. The bell announces the retirement of a lucent soul from the ever misinterpreted flash.

The Poet has died.

Carrying their hills at the back of their heads, they chase ether to the temple

All unite at the foot of the entrance; their heads swallowed by their chests, knees kiss the soil

Metallic foil hiding their cynical but gloomy faces, bodies are caldrons; blood is left to boil, veins coil no movement, “admiration for the elysian is expressed in stillness, be still and know I am God”

Candles on their hands though burning upside-down, they have flames speaking ineffable glories of shame soon to befall their children “The Poet has died, who’s has the map? Our young ones will need direction...And what about their hunger for perfection? Their origins? Oh the hurricane of entangled perceptions! What do we know about our inception”

Lamentations of the last days released before their time. All apparelled in benighted cloaks for the light has been drawn back to the stars to complete the equinox, tighten the constellations and circle Orion’s waste, paste posters of human desires on the walls of the sky and complete the universal catalogue, “The law of attraction will at least work for a few days”

The Poet has died.

The coffin: A fortress of stories told in blood and smiles, wooden soliloquies of a wise tree still wondering in complex memories “If it wasn’t for the death of those birds on my braches I would have been a chair in the king’s palace right now, oh their blood on my name”. The golden handles made out of some metal that worth’s less than a blank paper “They will have to hold themselves from falling apart and release me”. A silky lace whispering the expensive taste of creation when it comes to fabrics “O how fierce is oblivion to manifest over you my friend, you will soon worth nothing once the soil is your blanket” the tree named in blood laughs with sadness.

Some trees are buried like people, coffins are dead. Place his corpse in the dead coffin,

The Poet has died.

The Poet has died

Books unfinished,

Poems stuck in the mind map stage,

Characters half done, split personalities,

Dreams spinning on the pottery machine

String theory in laces, children tripping over them

Analogues repealing, parallelograms skew

Paint splits on the floor,

Flowers and rainbows aborted,

The canvas is upside down

Pens are looted by invisible beings walking around the esoteric abode

Lead still burning, gold pending,

Alchemy on hold

I will not die!

I’ve lost all memory of my life

All I recall is the first poem I wrote

The best cloud I created and rode

The moving words I spoke and showed the road

I let them walk away from me,

I took my reality and invented dreams for you

I cannot sketch any faces anymore,

My hand resorted to writing codes

I cannot match aces anymore

My hand’s devoted to shuffling skies and playing poker with god

Chairs move when I sit, I stay grounded so you can rise

Look at me from above so you can label me deep

Hell I will not die now, I’m a poet and I know it!

I will not wait for death to remind me, and so shouldn’t you

I’m here now and you should hear how

Deep is my love for this art

My heart fails constantly to love these fly women      

Of the earth who cannot even jump a banana skin even if they see it,

I’ve killed so many brain cells for this poetry thing

I’ve gone mad, crazy, nuts, gone into being weird, out to be foolish and now I’m insane

No poet will ever die!

Their bodies can perish,

Eyes pop sight out in the fire

Ears scream in flames, I will not die

For my words will forever remain!   

Introverts are people

They would all sit, huddled by the soft arms of night and mesmerized by the invisible voices enchanting the horizon with hope and soft altos

They all listened to that harmonic choir of stars, singing the winter night blue with grace

Singing with high pitches of glitter, serenading the serene silent night,

Spark there and another one there. The stars would sing light to elucidate the shy sky.

They all savoured the rough notes, the unbalanced tones, phones that would jump out of corroded cords to put the day to sleep, set the moon alight and set the mood to write. But they did not understand.

It is at night they would deploy their tongues and separate their lips from the everlasting explicit intimacy of muscles that took plays the whole day.

It is at night they’d speak, seek depth in heights of time when the day tweaks and dies into noon.

Odd moments when evens go oblique,

Counting ions backwards,

Speed of darkness chase light

Feathers lifting heavy hearts of hardworking men with minds that have suddenly gone weak, every week they would pray for salvation after a night of hectic orgy with their dreams, sodomizing reality “because life is fucked up” they say. “Women have mastered the art of control, stirring the Milky Way with brooms and sweeping us off our feet, now we’ve lost direction. They have grown porcupine quills beneath their armpits, they’re hard to please, it is hard to make them laugh, so don’t even think about happiness, they have killed everything in village, now they’re going for trees, put money in a monkey’s hand and they will marry monkeys!” All the men believed

It was later discovered that women also felt the same about these “heavy breathing and sweaty palms men, they can’t even chew right, they speak with food in their mouths, drinking from containers. They are monkeys!” The women would complain. The same shame glowed in their eyes

When they all united, males and females, north and south, cold and hot, hearts and minds, they all learned to express, let each other know what they feel on the spot, with immediate effect, speak what they felt and sort their differences out then and there.

And when they all learned to speak, the listeners all died.

No one felt the need to hear the next.

The world is flooded with mouths, and looted of its ears

I cannot speak... please just try to feel me...