March

March in my papermache
Strewn it till it stinks
I have lost sense of style since Sinatara
I have unlatched my belts of love since Abacha
Smash the moulded heated head
Tests are over-Inspection over.
Test results look likes insults
So want to insult, sorry has no salt



March
Make your point
In my pointed pointillism
Ask the film for a doctored documentary
I am a mad man
Seen it all-Fucking all
Like fucking Jesus on the fucking walk
On the storm.
Fuck it!

I have found the lady

to share my hands with
to make sonnets, songs, stories
and children
to breath out our love with childbirth
a child with my eyes, her nose and heartbeats.

I HAVE FOUND A LADY
To charge me
And caress my often roughened hair
To pray
As my fears sometimes go over board

I have found the lady
Be my pair
In this world called Vanity Fair
To teach me how to truly love,
Love without loathing.

I am but a lover’s disciple
Waiting to close distances
To walk on turbulent seas
Waiting
To hold you in my arms.

I need a lady

to share my dreams, my fears with
to lie and love with
from now and forthwith
to share my wit.

to free me from
the fetters of pain
to twine us with
ropes of longing

A lasting sigh of honey



In need of no jar shape
capable of cancer
with her quick temper

In her stead a queenly stature
of corresponding heartbeats
Rhyme, Rhythm, Synchronicity
of temperate mood




My hands on rapturous warm bodice

A queen of succulent kiss
of sunlight smile (even in brazen weather)
of precious eyes and belly button.

Deranged

Deranged

I am not a writer
all that is written being before written
or else-written off.
For copyrights are due to careful copying
not coping

The flow is getting
Dry
like rivers hit by peeled sun from
the covers

I am in a pub
all that matters with the pub-"leasher"
where beer is beared
and broke is bloke.
Hey Jonny, hows work today?
Work has worked itself out.



pockets dug
regal pretense
cowed in the pockets
thin as cow drivers.

to quit is to quilt
spirals of unwanted pattern

to accept is to axe intercept
splashing of raging blood showers.

Johnny, you can do it, can't you
I can't
this is not a CANteen
ask Obama, what he found out.

Who I am doesn't matter no more
that is a gimmick of a whore
you know the law is an ass?
even after all the hassles.



I am not a writer
nor a poet
all that, comes from a liar
I cannot compare myself to Twain
as all I want to say has been beaten
by acid rain.



Femi Morgan 6/10/2010

You are the sunlight
so bright as friendship,
you are the smile of graceful lines,
you are a friend I just met,
you are a story writer that the world awaits.

I like you, this lady from fruitful Benue
where I hear that they treat their men well. I hear they are full at their stomachs.
you are from the languishing hill of greenery,
of grand sounds and dance,
of black and white Zebra pride.
...

Where their wives are beautiful and busty,

all things that grow grow in its own bounds

Benue
mother of flowing rivers
father of finely carved shores
gift to mother earth
first of its kind.

Benue of irresistible kisses
Irresistible
of gladdened warmth
from the embrace of kind people
Benue of boats
gliding in and gliding out
like man and woman in the covers
you are from the languishing hill of greenery
of grand sounds and dance
of black and white Zebra pride