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Conjolted Poetry

Conjolted Poetry

Thursday, 16 January 2014

The pearls of love.

We dig deep-
scavenging grounds for a mineral called love.
Yet as we toil digging up mounds of dirt,
our one true love supports us as we try to leave.

She plasters our injuries like Florence nightingale,
after we have worked our shovels like miners-
failing to hark, the loud siren warning us
that love in dark mines is bound to collapse over us.

She holds her lamp to guide the way like a light house
as she watches you try to Oprah win-win,
as you swim in deep sea, Micheal pheeling yourself,
scuba diving trying to discover "precious love."

She watches and prays for you like Mother Teresa;
you're an inquisitive youth struggling on your mission.
She tells you, "Little flower, Do not rush to bloom.
Seek God on your journey and it'll not be in vain,"

She holds you from birth, moulds you to take on earth,
hoping that one day you will be an Obama,
yet you wander away trying to find your Michele,
to precede you yet love should preside and guide you.

She used to sing you to sleep like Beyonce,
and let you feel her halo embedded with x's and o's.
ayeh, you're now out their looking for ivy,
so she can sting you and leave you for dead.

We dig deep, skin deep,
yet wander far away,
from what we are fond of-
trying to find love,
love that has not been gifted to us.
Yet after being conceived and delivered,
we set our eyes on a gift of love;
Mothers; the pearls of love.

The sin bin

If selling's a sin,
and you're selling to win
should you throw it in the bin?

"How much," he asks,
with sexual desire-
glittering over his eyes.

You left home-
mum left before you.
Now you're your own mother,
helping out a brother; ayeh,
at what cost?

"Meka?" he asks.
With sexual desire- 
glittering over his eyes.

You bore a child as a child,
now you seek funding after gambling.
You placed a bet over school,
school lost to love, love left,
Now you’re dealing in theft,
selling "illegal goods-"
to get your daughter some food; ayeh,
at what cost?

"Kitna?" He asks.
With sexual desire- 
glittering over his eyes.

As you sought opportunity,
opportunity forced its way into your vicinity.
Now you’re caught in a game,
the sad part is it brings you shame,
You stick there for you need the change; ayeh,
at what cost?

"Ikura desu ka?" he asks.
With sexual desire- 
glittering over his eyes.

Now he has you bent over,
you’re an MTSW for H.I.V,
carried by a truck driver,
that's on ARV's and thinks H.I.V
Is Acquired In Desperate Situations.
So in your desperation,
You acquired a deficiency syndrome; ayeh,
at what cost?

"Wieviel?" he asks,
With sexual desire 
glittering over his eyes.

In your saffron for easy access,
you offer brothel service 
to famished goons to achieve success.
Your business model somewhat quaint,
your tips are from long hours of work,
procured by a pimp who just listens and cheers,

At the end of the day,
you have slaved,
maybe you've even been choked,
and still managed-
to have his financial fetish cleared.
You’re a red light district citizen,
always in a red light crimson, ayeh,
at what cost?

"Bekkam?" he asks,
With sexual desire- 
glittering over his eyes.

You’re a victim of human trafficking-
being banged up abroad.
If only it was drug trafficking,
the absurd tragedy would get you 
aboard an orange bus in transit-
trafficking dealers of coc,
to a place enclosed in tight locks; ayeh,
your innocence, guilty by situation,
might get you in a deadlock,
either dead or dead!

So if selling's a sin,
and you are selling to win,
should you throw it in the bin?

Saturday, 11 January 2014

Kili poyi, kili poyi.

Kili poyi, kili poyi.

They took with them sun as it faded in far end,
they left joy that imprinted a child with smile,
they sang beautiful songs of victory and peace-
as they waved away in cursor against the wind,

Kili poyi, kili poyi.

They brought love outstretched in their wings,
spreading passion captured in picturesque scene.
Their silhouettes reflected over water in bowls,
embedded with rose petals beautiful as rangoli.

Kili poyi, kili poyi,

They now chant in a distance to earnest men
who all day long have toiled and boiled in the heat,
waiting patiently for the setting sun to plummet,
and a sign from the birds to come by and relive them.

Kili poyi, kili poyi...

The birds flew away, the birds flew away,
and they took hope to their next destination.



There be no perfect justice,
to define treads of your beauty.
If we sat in a court house,
to debate what makes-
you poetically undefined,
gavel would not pound.

One lawyer would say
"your hips don't lie,"
yet as you lay on the bed,
small as graphite pencil,
only God can define
what beauty I look at,
so that would be a lie...

Another lawyer would say,
"your derriere redefines round"
as apples sit at the back of its lounge.
He would say it "lofty and curvy
like the engine on a Ducati."
yet these are labels inscribed on you,
the true you is where we are bound...

Another one would say,
"your pear like milky way,
is one that makes man,
envious of baby.
It is a work of art,
sitting on your chest,
one that some of 'you'
have seized to taste."

"As man tastes your luscious skin,"
another lawyer would say,
"no matter the hue, or shade,
pore by pore with greed.
He sucks as if trying to dig-
to find out what lies within."

Yet the skin which holds you-
is only wrapper and your hair ribbon.

Ayeh, when I stare deep into your;
B.M.W eyes, I see true you.
I see the story of your heart,
and the burden bore by the soul of a-

.P.T.P.D ( Put the pot down!)


Put down the pot,
put down the pot.
It will break you and own you.
You're trying to prove your bravado; ayeh,
you're not brave enough, bro.
It will break and water will pour over you.

Is it shame you seek?

Put down the pot,
put down the pot.
You're holding onto it; ayeh,
your hands are not glued to it.
You only fear to let go yet if you don't,
your mental enslavement will grow.

Is it fear that drives you?

Put down the pot,
put down the pot.
I know it looks beautiful, ayeh
It's like the forbidden fruit.
there is reason why you do not deserve it;
otherwise, you will grow an undesirable habit.

Is it beauty that drives you?

Put down the pot,
Put down the pot.
I know you are thirsty; ayeh,
that should not make you feisty.
Drink your water with modesty,
and only when need be.

Is it thirst you long to quench?

Put down the pot,
Put down the pot,
It is not only hot, ayeh,
It will burn you and lead you to choke,
so if you do not stop running stops.
the fine you'll pay will be high and ruin your rapport.

Is it temptation that drives you?

Put down the pot,
Put down the pot,
It might lure you; ayeh,
It only puts you out of your gourd
yet does not have the potency,
to force you into dependency.

It is only a pot,
so put it down,
you can carry it another time,
and even if it gets stolen,
you can always make another.

I still love you, why?

I remember the first time I met you,
we were in the village by fire place awaiting dinner.
You were dressed in brown had a pot like figure,
your skin was fair, you were thick and hot.

A friend of mine asked me to taste you,
said my life would put its fate in you.
I dived and you burnt me like a flame,
I died that night then rose again.
then held onto you for support.
but you started to kill my rapport.

We grew to become great friends,
I once broke our chain link; ayeh,
we made amends and tied knot again

Life changed,
you grew clear to me,
and in my tiger like eyes,
your beauty is fragile and exquisite
dressed in glass, such a fine exhibit,
clear to me like vodka.
with a waist and taste like Bailey's.

One night, we were out together, drinking as usual.
You asked me to pull out one more from the fridge,
one of my unusual, but wished for gig's.

I hate to say but,
that was one of my best nights.
I drunk bottle to bottle,
stayed as firm as a knight-
battling through the night.

Ayeh, my best night was when you came dressed in green,
a napkin hang over your hips like a slit.
As always, you were dressed in glass; fragile!

When we locked lips,
we had conversation through the night.
I had never connected with a person
as much as I did with you. so that night,
the love we made was fresh out intimacy's kitchen.

You listened to my troubles,
it did not matter if it felt like I spoke to myself,
it did not matter if I teared or made a full of myself,
laughed so hard at my misery and teared some more,
pulling a loud snot like I cried through my nose.

None of that put you off,
you always gave me your all,
even if after I started to piss on the road-
in fact you always thought that funny,
the rest called me a drunk, so every time I drunk,
I cursed them out and blamed it on the liquor,
yet my smart mouth only knows how to beaker.

They tried to pull us apart,
told me I had over dozed,
and you, I suppose, were my drug.
They said I had started talking to myself,
holding conversations with walls,
and hurting people's feelings,
like it is not a fact that they have flaws,
yet you, my dear, are flawless.

I fled there so called "sanctuary,"
it felt like I had been there a century.
I met you in a bar down the road,
I was eager for I missed you dearly.

We sat by the counter,
caught up for old times sake,
then relapsed into old habits.
I imbibed off your luscious milky way,
got sucked onto it like the bermuda,
things fell apart after that.

I felt smart yet you tore me apart,
my mother abandoned me,
said I was too caught up loving you.
My kids left me,
said I was too caught up diving in you-
instead of teaching them how to swim, still,
I stuck to the edge of your rim.

I would stagger home to you,
then you would embrace me.
You were always ice cold,
It did not matter because-
like fire, I took away cold.
Then you would hung me again the next day,
and I would resurrect like Jesus in his prime.

The hangovers are now hang over,
it's only the thing I do without you;
All this time we spend together,
has taken away my liver.

It is trapped in your bottle,
sailing away like a message in a bottle,
yet it can't be put to good use.
Still, here I am with you sparkling,
bubbling and brewing in my gold chalice,
looking ready to deliver malice-
before I take my last shot,
hoping it won't give me a stroke.

If you figured out who she is,
Check out Suicide , and Put down the pot

Tuesday, 7 January 2014

How will we know?

If you don't scribble,
you will never know,
how your mind nibbles,
off words that draw pictures
and illuminate hearts with inspiration.

If you don't jump,
you'll never know how high,
and we'll never know how low,
we can stoop just to see your show,
as you catch flight and break rims.

If you don't sing,
you will never know it's your thing,
and your voice; silenced,
deep in a casket of your choice,
will never give us courage.

If you keep shoving your hands
down into your pockets, and shy away,
you'll never know, the power they wield
to shock the world when you become  a boxer,

If you do not try to burn out your breaks,
make mistakes and taste fate,
how will we ever know that you're great?

If you like this piece I'm sure you'll like
the break through 

Off the coast and back.

Off the coast and back.

Sometimes I think I can't write,
so I hold onto my words,
throw them in a trunk,
and drive away to the coast.

When I park,
I always look around the lot,
to check if anyone is chasing me for my lot.
When the coast is clear,
I open the boot and start sailing off to sea
to catch a few more words.

Ayeh the words come slow,
They tell me my paddle-
is not pushing us far enough,
So I head back to the car,
shut my boot, drive away.
to look for a boat service centre.

When I get one,
I open my boot again,
then let my mind be tinkered.
After adding an engine to my boat,
I drive back the sail far away,
away from the coast.
This time I am moving at great speed.

I bump into sharks,
jump over waves,
run my fingers over water,
feel a chill from the cold rush,  
as water sprinkles up my arm-
it's an amazing feeling.

When I can,
I let people hop onto my boat,
so we can share the rush.
At our peak,
I cut the engine,
let the water hold us in its calm premise,
and as the sun's reflection lingers over the water,
Our skins goose-bump all over from the cold chill,
I lay back and stare in the clouds.
and write out what they picture.

This time round they look like dolphins,
gliding through the clouds,
sending a sonar to God,
telling him I seek words
to put me back into my gourd,
for I have been forced to think,
that my boat is over flooded
and can not move any further.

So he blesses me,
then my words and I,
float away in tandem,
me behind my leader,
and a few other mandem.
We all catch a good wave,
as we listen to waves clashing in clave,
then make our way back to bay.