Don't scroll, search for it here...

Conjolted Poetry

Conjolted Poetry

Sunday, 8 February 2015


This loud mind is troubled,
and its loud mouth rots in silence-
with close to foul thoughts,
that reek the stench of a long soaked soul.

I need to wring my brain,
it's bottled silence too long...

I've been told I'm too young,
too young to walk the isle,
yet those that walk it are toddlers
toddlers in black suite and tie

Afraid to be wise,
afraid to do what is right,
afraid to live off the line.
For everyday man-

Is a sheep that flocks the duck line,
that which leads straight into a land mine,
for I often see people go BOOM!
Then get surprised over mistakes they tiled,

I am tired!

Tired of being BROKE!
Black, redundant, opaque,
kaput, and envious, I am tired!
Black is just a colour; it's not me.
yet due it I feel like I do not belong.

Redundant for my lack of creativity,
and ingenuity because of dependency.
Yet I am a 'free slave', free from stupidity,
free from indemnity, I owe no dues!
I might be an opaque modern slave,
and His light "can't" go through me,
that does not mean I am not blessed.

My mind has been pushed to kaput!
I have been forced to believe I am worthless,
in minute counts of tiny Penny's,
merely minted but have me smitten
yet are made from God given minerals-
it's a shame, and at this "exorbitant price;"

Feeling broke as if I cannot afford,
confidence without any additives,
elegance without Gucci for enhancement,
dividends without reading so damn hard!

As if, As if, I cannot knead dough,
yet the people of my homeland,
are used as satire for their expertise-
in grinding and hustling that dough...
Ayeh, that's not funny.

I tell you what's funny?
Not being able to afford a toilet roll,
yet one can afford to brag and ball.
Me trying to keep it on the low-low,
with no fake chains on my neck 'cause of yolo.
Me trying to live within my means-
yet it seems I'm being miserly.
Me envying my friends as they shine
with fake chains and industrial rejects.
yet they are just trying to fake it till they make it..
We're soot filled Kettles,
bubbling boiling inside, trying to shine again.

How did success go from-
being measured in honour and valour,
to trinkets of wealth and countable paper?

I'm Tired, tired, tired!

Of being average yet I am a maverick
Tired of having to shine like a star to stand out,
yet one can never be a star;
we are human beings-
made of clay, made of matter!
So no matter the matter;
we are meant to shine!
So I don't see why we need bling-bling,
for us to stand out like Singh-Singh


I am tired!
Tired of being afraid,
afraid to change and move forward,
yet I am a product of birth,
I was procreated hence forth-
from birth there should be growth,

Afraid to love one another for it hurts,
tell that to God whose trust we often squander.
Afraid to live out the box,
yet there is - no - box!
Afraid to be smart,
yet it's part of our art.
Afraid to be honest for truth hurts,
so what should we do, lie?
Afraid to be an individual,
who's distinct and entirely different,
whose finger prints match no other.

You see, even If we were Siamese,
Our blue prints would be-
differentiated with much ease,
and even if different, we act like twins-
fighting against each other,
losing the value in our exquisite love,
yet there is sanctuary-
in the matrimony of togetherness...

Walks of life

I walk slow,
with a humble snail gait,
trying to figure out fate,
and what bait it sets to my dates...
Recurrently I contemplate,
over things that agitate-
like upon which way,
life will be sending me today,
or whether if my ways;
will get me where I want tomorrow?

Some of my mates,
those I've lived to know,
and those I'll get to know;
take paths of conical shape.
Earth is round due its gravity pull-
all things come dwindling down,
so no matter how high up above-
it is to the ground that we are bound...

So they spin round in circles,
seeking a precious path of marble.
Upon which are things distinct,
things which get your mind to the brink-
things like money; sweet, sweet money;
A dictating Hitler for humble dwellers,
yet also, fish bate for dry land fishers;
that veggie green gives man a gators gait.

The essence to "a" life yet not our essence in
                the presence of life.
                         .  .  .

Some walk meandering with haste,
caught up in whimsical debate-
pondering upon which mate to mate,
or which car to take her/them for a date.
They cheat and lie to help them look fly,
soar a faux soar which leaves them sore,
roar a miaow roar to fake way like kajal-
trying to shake fate off the road it takes.

                         . . .

The slutty walk of the temptress is sultry,
it lures and allures the evil spirit to conjure,
into the prey of the temptress trying to endure.
Selling sin is a disturbing thing! Especially-
if your desire is to survive life's molestation,
with prudence you weigh out all caveats,
and alas, a roach on back with nothing left-
you poignantly swing from right to left,
stressed and intoxicated dreading sunset.

For in depth of dark your soul is wounded as you
                      await sunrise
                           . . .

Ayeh in time; my dear, you will be fine.
Those customers that in twine in your vines,
distressing your mind like squeaking chalk,
those whose staggering walk talks no talk,
those are the sinners to console your soul.
For we are all sinners awaiting parole...
Ayeh; a careless attitude shows no gratitude,
yet the riches amassed onto their pay rolls
Test further the desires they fail to control.

Desires are sources of pleasure whose roads
             must be trekked with caution.
                          . . .

Then those that strut with chests for heads;
with Infallible pride to lead way like lead.
These are those that majesty did not crown;
ayeh; in and on their heads is a plume crown
nothing like the heavenly halo of those saved.
These, these are those that walk a thin line,
for pride in your bride is commendable,
yet nonsensical pride is demeaning.
Pride is a shoe to help you walk that mile,
a shoe can be used to step on people!
                            . . .

An earnest great trekker takes pride in work,
walks extra miles and still affords a smile,
breaks yawn at dawn from rest like the sun,
leaves the fam home to gain on life's run,
fears to sloth for he knows life is a test,
strives to grow and stand out from the rest,
distastes hate and quests for peace in love,
faults but repents and shuns re-engagement.

"The earnest human is an honest trekker;
                  a beacon of hope."
                          . . .

 "Life is a journey jammed with trekkers
                 Of multiple characters..."


Fibonacci stair 'Case'

The dream weaver caught me off guard.
It was a standard procedure,
parables at each corner and many doors,
all for me to walk through if I chose-
I suppose, but He lead me to a certain flaw.

The stairs swivelled in Fibonacci sequence,
each step embedded with gems and jewels,
leading to what we perceive as finer things.

He walked yet looked like he hovered,
leading the way with his golden stick.
He struck between simple and exquisite,
never talked nor looked at me,
we just strolled and I observed it all.
I barely remember all that I saw,
Just glimpses and pictures to piece and tell.

Further up, things turned glamorous,
with people sleeping on and with diamond.
They never looked, only the diamond shimmered.
It shimmered yet looked jaded and jailed,
tied to necks on chains none knew its worth;

Just its money value...

I don't know what I was meant to see,
but mostly I saw people in opulence.
Further up; the numbers dwindled,
till we reached the top where we saw it all,
and how far you could humanly fall!

They say our weaknesses reveal our need,
our need to be touched within and felt,
and only one through our hearts can drill,
to excavate and truly reveal;
the majestic diamonds we are.

I was feeling low the night before,
something within just didn't glow like before.
So I laid low and when it was time to sleep off,
I was cast in a dream to be shown-
things I thought of but didn't quite know...

The water is beautiful when you see it glow;
Ayeh, is its beauty lost when the sun goes?
In life some things we will never know;
Ayeh, we're to discover the gold in our souls
So take it slow, don't reach so high you'll fall

You might learn but when you land it'll be time to go.
and if you understand, you're as humanly high as you can go or glow.


Sarah, Sarah...
"Lwaki obguma ngo'bwito?
Tobaikiriza kuchamuza,
ata kuzimba tomwetaga.
Ekitibwa kyo nekyo bugaiga bwo,
wokigaba oida kwavuwala

I once met a young girl of thirteen,
black young and beautiful-
short, thick, curly African hair.
They often call it kaweke.
Her eyes, a rare shade of brown-
none could read the pain within...

Her influence was the big screen TV,
which she often visited in the kibanda-
the local movie studio in her village.
Like many, she was drawn to luxury,
yet didn't come from a well to do family,

Meals in her home didn't happen daily,
some were specially reserved for Christmas,
along side gifts like shoes and clothes;
of which what was bought was not for all.
Being the middle child; the black sheep,
she always ended up last on the family list.

So her many tears lead her to the kibanda,
Just to catch up on unrealistic reality TV.
to fuel up on her desire for the trendy,
and fill the void within dug deep by family.

while at the kibanda, she met a man;
a hunter, starved and ready to devour her.
So he bated and manipulated her desires,
creating heed over things she didn't need;

A devil in disguise tempting an angel...

"Sarah, Sarah.. "
He didn't know her name, she hadn't conceded
so he called her Sarah for lack of a better option.
"Sarah, Sarah..
Ki?... lwaki tompaku?"
Sarah, why don't you give me some? he begged.
Ku byenkuwa iwe tonendesa?"
"Of all I've given you, aren't I deserving? he added.

"Nkuwe ki?"
What should I give you, she'd always ask.

He kept giving her gifts,
some she didn't accept,
some she'd foolishly take,
and in return he'd demand,
and Sarah of insect wit,
was naive and didn't understand-
the nature of the game she was playing.

At first he wasn't forceful, ayeh;
he started coercing her to oblige.
Having accepted all he's bribes,
she started to feel indebted,

So on this one dreadful evening,
after insisting to escort her home.
He had had enough of her games,
and enough of alcoholic drink..

when they reached a dark and bushy area,
he gripped her face and forced a kiss.
Perplexed, she tried to throw out her fists,
he held her arms and shoved her to the ground.

She shrilled but no one came to save her.
He was intoxicated so was short of fear.
He pulled up her short school skirt,
and like the brute he was he had his way.

When she got home after that,
she was dissolved by thought.
Uneducated but knew right from wrong,
she tossed, turned and cried all night long.

She was too afraid to open up to anyone,
so she kept at his game like a vile curse,
taunting and tempting her to the hearse,
until he realised she had become pregnant.

She realised her body changes soon,
She saw the troubles faced by her family,
so she picked a leaf from her tree,
decided to 'act wise' and go for abortion.

It was not the wisest thing to do;
some disagree, some say live and let live,
but she could barely afford to keep it together,
how could she dare add another on board?

Through persistence she got his assistance.
He aided the abortion but had given "Sarah" H.I.V.
When she got the tragic news from the doctor,
she felt poorer than she had ever been before...

Her family used ask what the matter was,
but did it matter, they'd only reject her...
I met her as a visiting counsellor in her school,
she confided in me and we became close friends,
Not too many years in, she passed away as an s.6 graduate,
I guess the glory in story lied in her strength.

Sarah, Sarah...
Lwaki obguma ngo'bwito,
Why do you heat up like boiling oil,
Tobaikiriza kuchamuza,
Don't let them entice you.
Ata kuzimba tomwetaga.
You don't need anyone that doesn't build you.
Ekitibwa kyo nekyo bugaiga bwo,
The respect you give your self is your wealth,
Wokigaba oida kwavuwala,
If you give it away you'll have no value,
Kikumeh, wekuumeh!"
Safe guard it, safe guard it.


Ekitibwa kyo nekyo bugaiga bwo
Wokigaba oida kwavuwala!

Know your worth before you walk a path-
that's elegantly designed to ruin your life.
H.I.V is real, just as much as pregnancies,
and you're the dust that causes its allergies-
yet you could be the condom that stops its sperm,
or that fighter that avoids getting into fights.
Don't struggle and hustle when there is no meddle,
in it for you on the table for jumping a huddle.
keep your keys on the table and don't drive,
Unless your driver straps on and takes precaution;
Otherwise, you'll end up hitting "bumps,"
and incurring costs out of your budget.

This is for the beautiful women out there,
You are the leaders of this world,
that we men egotistically call ours.
You're mothers that bring forth generations,
you might have come second in creation,
but, without you nothing can go further.
Even if us as fathers role play like mothers,
we just are not you, we can't yield that fruit,
we can't till like you do, we might be farmers-
with the capability to plant seed;
Ayeh, you are our beloved mother nature...
We await your light to aid our growth,
that ray of light that shows us the path.
A path through a door of which;

You hold the key,
So H.I.V, Hold It Vainly!

The orchestra...

The shadow is our friend,
it helps us play our little games.
The spotlight our muse,
helps us execute our moves,
as we sparkle like reflector lights-
leading the way to entertainment.

Our lines are vines,
that connect us with our audience,
if they are cut off;
we stammer like epileptic victims,
with no spoons in the mouth,
it's not sweet at all....

Our audience,
The saddle on which we struggle,
as we endeavour to jump huddles
nerve wrecked in need of cuddles
from the sweet caress of success,
for it's that beautiful girl;
our derby's prize, the meddle.
The only thing to make us calm,
after we have entertained, satisfied,
bowed, and waved goodbye..

The sits in which they fill,
are the tickets that we bill-
to access them and make them feel,
how we feel when our hearts are still.
Numbed by the love that inspired,
and gave us reason to bleed,
and in all honesty to seek heed.
They are the parcels that bag,
our reactions from persons,
endeared by our inventions;
they are what carry us all...

The stage is an aid for the masquerade;
a prop for the props from the audience en mass,
as we carry out precarious acts in play,
like a Nightingale singing out in the pale-
to drive out ennui and sway them to stay.
It carries us, it's the deck on which we ship,
sailing steadily into performance sea,
where upon the waves there's much to see;
act in comedy and sorrow in honesty,
drama in enmity and action in situation,
and for the grande finale of medley,
all we desire is your ardent devotion,
for the orchestra is our home,
and you are welcome to walk into our emotion

Thursday, 5 February 2015

Beautiful Rebels, written by Sezi, performed by Ibrahim

My first video reciting a poem by Sezi called "beautiful rebels." It's not all that clear but I hope you like it.