I take a
humble step into
your magical self
with nothing
but the eloquence of
the Wind.
I belong to a
paternity raging in the air,
the awesome whoosh
rumbling through the flora.
Unto the expanse
of your dimple surface
I come
sojourner from
the land of sand and delta
Sure It
Is
Tender and
graceful
your touch
oh cool sand of seaside.
The warmth of your depth
the therapy of your waves.
Wrap me tenderly.
Give me relief.
My head is pounding.
My stomach is churning.
The melody of the Sea
the eloquence of the Wind
the last rhyme standing
in Nature’s talon of songs.
The lumina is my shield
where aboriginal tunes are honey
to bring back my lost voice
to enliven this numb tongue.
You ask
Why do I weep
for departed heroes?
Why do I talk of heroes in the past?
Where are the heroes of today?
In my age
heroes don’t live beyond embryos,
worst if born to meet Herod’s swords
unspeakable if left to grow.
Thunder strikes the tallest trees in Africa.
I dome to you with the eloquence of the Wind
seeking a haven.
I am a rebel
from the land of thunders
where tall trees are struck down.
Why do I weep for departed heroes?
Why do I talk of heroes in the past?
Where are the heroes of today?
Again
You talk of
Africa
needing oral hydration.
Perhaps something more potent
after multiple rapes
after venereal vomits.
Of rapes and thunders
our narrative is viscous
a national blister
nursed by the egos of despots.
The pus—our purse—is a river of injuries.
The blood—our oil—is a delta of dung.
Humbled into
the cold embrace of your waves
I seek multiple cowries of incarnation.
Bowing
Before You
Overwhelmed by
your wavy axiom
I stand
rage to rage
a reincarnated Marechera
ready to mouth juicy blasphemies.
Passion of tiger, orgasm of lion.
Angst, and angst, arrant angst.
I rise to cure my nation of paralysis
with fragrant concoction of blasphemies.
Equip me with more profanities, oh Sea.
Nourish me with your stubborn waves.
Eager temptations range themselves
to smudge this crystal epiphany.
My soul is raging.
My feet seek to step
on the smithereens of china conventions.
I will defy the lust of the rainbow
and dance no more to the handclap
of communal decorum.
I Take A
Holiday
Off-shore
&
go nightclubbing
in spite of my penury
negotiating lies through girl’s thighs
and beer has no limit
and the discothèque rages
with the actions of unfed legs.
I return to your shore
waist bulging with denied sex.
and the rain starts a sonorous elegy
and I stand, soaked, smelling
sacred odour from your armpits, oh Sea.
the raindrops you put to shame
each drop is a question
swallowed by your rolling lips.
Waste, just waste, only waste.
Tender is this night of forgotten chores.
