Still burning black, the dizzy morning stretches vastly across the infinite and wakes me up with a rush of its torpidity. It is infectious and I am unwilling to quit my slumbering position. Why should I quit this lull, this rest, this magnanimity of nothingness and descend into the littleness of life that swims without an iota of comfort? What little courage I have, I must use it, extra hours must be a possibility. For if I wake, it’s for the sake of this morning which is dizzy with it’s sleeping run of sweltering glow. I will not go gently into this day, I war with the giddiness of weak bones and an excessively crushed spirit.
The scion of a sleepy eyed warrior is to be feared for laziness is more effective than hard work in the right hands. What I would do with my match stick, and my blunt and hard cock and other miscellanies would tear the world away from itself and at the same time, would mean nothing. None of it would matter, indeed, none does matter as much as a somnambulant passion, an unconscious dog burrowing his snout in stinking sand, digging and pissing, that’s why I wish to sleep. I badly wish to sleep and I would return to the rays of my slumber if only the bus of life was directed towards that destination. What is the use of waking when man, in his infinite finiteness, only truly spreads his pinions when he dreams? What is waking but a torment, a mosquito sucking the aspirations from every vein treading the mirrorless earth. It is my intention through these verses (for consider this bad poetry unversified), to sleep while I wake, to bite back the skin of the mosquito and drone and disturb it’s ears. To curse this circus is to mock the thin thread and what higher goal should man aspire towards in this gamut of deception we call wake. Eating the muck that makes up the bug which sucks our blood.
Everything, everything that moves and breathes secretly secretes a wish for death as they progress through time. It’s like they grow weary and purposely slip, hoping they crack their thinking skulls on the porcelain; like they were tired of thinking and would gladly give away the faculty for it. Like it, a burden rather cast away, had done it’s time. It had always done its time; thinking. My eyes are tired of seeing and I wish I could close them, forever and dream of nothingness or of a Hera’s plump breasts. Whichever soothes the mood I am at that moment– nothingness for ennui; the poetic breasts, well, is for everything else. And like a cockroach, seeking death at every turn, hungry for a corpse of food, hungry to be a corpse of food, I hasten towards the pails of soothe to bathe me in its gushing enshroud. Fogs, clouding against the backdrop to sanctify my choices; to be or not to be, rather to be or to perish and gloat in the perishing– rise like buildings half decimated, half eager to be seen. And in the hubbub of the court of life, I ignore the fog, the sanctity, the choices brought to the steps of my bolted door and I choose slumber; the peace of it, the comfort of assurance. And does this make me an impotent pretender, who even in his parts– the pretense, is made impotent, or raw, like the secretion of all that moves and breathes, that aspires to flee from hunger? Does it make me be? Am I– in the indelible food truck of laughter, laughing at myself, throwing a mock at everything, even this bedsheet, rumpled from giving me repose, while wishing I was an acolyte of something; my trusts saving me from the deliriums of free will?
At the edge of the shore the waves merge with the thirsty sand and it’s saltwater provokes parching through delicate care. The waves hopes it’s tides of love, which it repeatedly bathes the shores with, would one day sate it’s love, pacify her, relentlessly bring her to the four walls of a gentle climax. But each act of kindness, each touch of thoughtfulness only worsens the state of the shores. But to protest at this point, (if even it could do that, as all protest is a mask of dissatisfaction which leads to more tedium,) is a futile activity. It could even be termed rash; so the shores die in silence. No wonder the pallidity of the beach so stuns us we inevitably fall for it. All men long for woe in their massification, and thrive within the tokens of dry bones self destruct gets from pity, but the men who last… No man lasts, but all unconsciously believe they will.
All girls are lesbians, but I must wake now from my waking dream. Aurora begins to sieve her provocative rays through the meshes in the window, laying siege to my thoughts. It gilds my room with a flood of light this sunlight. I have not consulted the time. I hate the time for it reminds me of my minuteness and makes me wish so badly I am god– above time and more mean spirited, like a fish that devours the reeds, man and other fishes. This wish targets his aloneness most of all: imagine controlling the world, watching naked bodies, envious: far above the threshold yet close enough to judge. I don’t mind god too much because I don’t know much of him and I don’t believe that any man could know God better than I know God, if he did exist. Pale face that shames the sun, a dick with the seed of stars and buckets of galaxies, time in his pocket, a haughty nature which still is revered? Why give excuses for God while the same characters are disdained in man, and even give God veneration? What makes him of better stock when I exist and he does not? For to exist is to be in this world, and to be in this world props more honor than any transcendence ever will. Death is a nullification as well as all things in the unknown alter; all forms beyond the void.
To survive the melancholia, the wake, the aches in a blunted finger, to walk a distance under the blazing sun and still love it. God! Why should one not love life and hold it’s beauties however tedious, to greatest esteem. The cutting sunlight, like a knock on the head, begins to discipline me to efficacy, begins to steer me towards stirring from the bed. Still my leaden feet resists, my eyes are shut, still shooting towards sleep and I wish to dream forever.
Iduoze Abdulhafiz is a poet, playwright, short story writer and philosopher. His works delves into themes of introspection and existential questions. In them he explores profound emotions such as grief, longing, ecstasy, the divine and other worldly issues.
He hopes that through his writing, he brings some form of sate or a glim of light, to the reader reading his work.
Many of his works contemplate issues of existence using metaphorical imagery and philosophical reflections. He has been published in the ekonke magazine.
