a.
here, i am a produce perching besides the distance nightmares.
with a lengthy lyrics guitar(ing) the larynx like a south-central
dravidian language. hope, in yoruba “ireti”, i.e the formula of
planting an apricot flowers that normally bloom a second ahead
of tomorrow. longing. in Lagos, i traded my sweat for the fear of
unknown where the yellow buses moored to the mouth of the
Hudson, the step with which a body is built for;
grief-stricken, dolorous folklore. tear growing lean out
of tear. & here's billie eilish's_ never felt so alone, a dark music
box covered with colourful smoke of camellia sinensis tea.
b.
here, the glory of your pocket isn't marked by the eye lens of
muscles__ if journey between dream & a dreamer doesn't take a
century, then. ideal, shaking loose the heart lugging them.
saturday evening, asleep in a minaudière. it draws me closer
to the lucid phantasm + an unclogged secret + a distance memory=
an appetite for liberty. it's hard, isn't it? pulling apart
breath from living with scalpel: in- ha- le × ex- ha- le
= disease (hairy nymphalid)
c.
here, my mind is a synecdoche of solitude. heartburn that knows
not a place of its grave. of its home. a whole profane by part. once
i told myself, everything we own isn't truly ours. our lives are loans.
abrasion of rented choices. another reason with which
a poem should stay unspoiled.
