Fabrication

When you drop me like a pin
Know that I am a needle
Lost, peradventure, never found
Patiently waiting
At the sidewalks
For only a tailor eye.

I have tried to mend
To sew differences
To knot faiths
Bringing rhythm into your boring sequence

I am a needle
Sharp with memories of us
Always at a personal worship of your tender skin
Hurting and loving-giving pleasure

I have tried not to mute
I have cried, I have walked with my bare foot
All seams seems at a dying stage
When the doctors, sew the heart with advice.



I am no bait
For your anger
No balm for your indecisiveness
There are no crevices to hide
For I am no one’s fiddle
I am that small needle
That leaves you with a riddle

You are my wool-my fabric
On which without,
There is no existence-
That, I crave intact.

But we are fastly worn
So tenderly torn threadbare with silence
For when I try to mend
You render signs of farewell

I am a needle
Lost in transit
On the rug of temptation and confusion
In your purse of disrespect
In your weave-on, staying.
All I need is the strength of fabric without fabrication
All I need is your spirited love without silence
Or
There is a wide pool of designer clothes from China
There are a heap of China-made garbs in Yaba
And a thronging of mini-skirts in Victoria Island boutiques.

At the Walls of Gaza Strip

We are at the walls
We have lost our virginity
Under the hospitable stars
Behind the brushing bushes
And on the seats of cars with seasoning kisses

We are at the walls
Where we fingered the fingerling
And tinkered the chamberlain
That was looking and rebranding



We can do it
With the can do spirit of town
Where condemned condoms are hidden from frowns

BE Warned
But they are warmed in bed
By the tease of money, wealth and fame
To the contracts of thighs



Churches and Mosques in their fold
When they fold up in the evening
A new life unfolds
Holy Ghost fire dims for one terrible blazing fire
Hadith hides from the shawl of Haram



We are at the walls
Of Marx and Tolstoy
Home of the troubadours and trouble makers
“Its a mad hall of presidents”
Residing in the innards

We are the walls
Where favours ends at Gaza Strip
Except there is some stripping and some wailing.

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.