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Tuesday, November 25, 2008

How she move

She moved like she was on fire, fuelled by the beguiling rhythm of deep desire. And even though I tried to move along with her, I was stuck – mesmerized more like – to my place. I could only move my head. Even then, I did so cautiously, knowing that my head could not fully capture the essence of the spirit that poured forth through every rhythmic beat, every drop of sweat, every gasp and every humid release of air.


I remained stuck to my place.


Though the lights were off, she stood in the limelight. As her voice echoed through every inch of the orifice that was my ear, I felt a slight tremble as we became one. Her story became my story; her pain, my anguish; her laughter, my joy; and her tremor, my earthquake. At that moment, we were one.


We continued the secret dance that was ours, oblivious of the presence of any other in the room. Truth be told, we cared less. The world be damned. This was our time. Enthralled and totally vanquished by her, I let myself float in to her world.


I saw life through her eyes.


She didn't need to talk anymore. Just a smile, a glance, a subtle tilting of the head was all I needed to read the deep thoughts that ran through her mind. At that point, we were one.


As she dismounted, a pained smile danced across my face. She was good. Compelling. Deep. Persuasive. She was gone.


As the lights came one and all the actors took their bow, I was glad I had seen the stage play, SARAFINA. The actors were good, but the lead actress was – well, just too good.


Kudos to our South African brothers for a story so deep and moving, it should be called the African story. Kudos to the lead actress, Sarafina.

Friday, November 14, 2008

To each guy his own penis...

To each guy his own penis;
To every girl, her pair.
This is not a post about sex,
Now why on earth would I go there?
Freaksho’s already done it; Aloofar’s shown off his dicks,
Nothing compared, I tell you, to blogsville’s crazy chicks.
Now to the matter at hand,
Shall we get ahead?
Something dey vex me and
My head is in a bend.

Why people too dey compare,
Why can’t we be content?
Some people too dey show themselves,
Others dey pretend
Sey dem no be who dey be,
Or sey dem hol’ too much
Others too dey yarn dia size,
Like sey e go win dem prize.

Ehen, does size really matter?
Is it guaranteed to please her?
Is it having sex or making love?
Don’t ask me, ask ibiluv!

I don’t have an opinion on everything,
So you can’t sue me.
I’m just rattling off some random thoughts;
E get as e dey do me.

Friday, November 7, 2008

I may not be Obama, but I'm getting me some attention!

That's right! The world must remember my name. Muhahaha! This week, I slip into the deep recesses of my mind, drawing out a me that's always been around, or some dude lurking in the dark, desperately trying to see the light of day. Today, he gets his wish! Ladies and gentlemen, behold Muse the canibal. Along with this, here are two poems: one dark (sorta), and the other, well just plain ol' me.


Oh, and by the way, Obama rocks!

The sons of men
In Abassi’s eyes
Lay naked
Under the noonday skies
Though they covered be
Through a mastered craft
That we do not see
For we have believed
And we now forget
What we really are
In Abassi’s eyes
We are sons of men

My soul is deep
And dark it is
My soul does weep
And gnash its teeth
For bitterness has eaten deep
Now brokenness and sorrow sit
Enthroned, rulers of a wretched being
Whose only hope of solace is
A fitless, eventless eternal sleep.