C-H-R-I-S-T-M-A-S

C-Christ Comes
H-Honor Heightens
R-Reality Reckons
I-Influence Imbibes
S-Substance Supplies
T-Time Tells
M-Masses Moves
A-Accomplishment Accounts
S-Selling Situates

MANUFACTURED

      Everybody is nobody
 Erased
 Brought back
We see in two's
Death of one
 Raise of another
False memories
No history.

Experiments
Scientists porn in the game.               Samples collected
Man refined,
Lies we were told, truth we sought.
Artists, lieutenants, athletes not left out. Family and friends scared to you again
 One for the price of two.
 Dust shall we return.

 2, TITLE: TRUTH TOLD LIES SEEKED.
North Pole to South Pole 
Could there be more a question asked.
Flat or spherical?
A page from the Bible will tell.
We have no choice.
Life outside does not exist Undiscovered world

  Born in the past
  Present in the future
Knowledge is power,
Power is power
Time jumps in some case
Window unknown opened
Cosmic changes
Seismic problems
 Life a game
 Puppet to the master.

3, TITLE: CALL TO MIND
       Slowly but surely my heart breaks 
       into dismay.
       Mama's words deepens the hole in 
       ticker.
       Papa always reminding me of how 
       Pointless I have become.
       
       Scared and hunted with the 
       Stigmatization of blunder
       the world shut the door in my face.
       Cynthia do u remember going to 
       the old man's room to find different
       Flavors of death.
       I perceived the real shudder of
       Death.

       The taste so cool and tranquil
       Bit by bit, molecule by molecule,
       atom by atom.
       It looked like the flag of permanent
       Defeat.
       Zapped with a laser, drawing the 
      Fiend out of me.

4, TITLE: HERITAGE OUR ECHOES
         From our tongue to our mahogany skin.
From the food we eat to souls that made it.
From the songs we sing under a silver lining.
Is our heritage the soles of our foot on which we trot the motherland?

        We ascend in diverse but euphonious sounds of our tongues  "Salam alekum, bawoni,olo-dudu,ndewonu"
When the birds of Eden sang,the souls gone livid,never to be casted aside like blackened burnt rice.

Strong and inspiring like a mighty tree 
The perpetual cadence of the vast sea, the shade it brings ,peace that it leads, I hear the echoes of my heritage.

5, TITLE:
End
Can I schedule when it will end
In a world controlled by an unending confusion
Law and order replaced with mayhem 
The law comes in, hoisting their pendant of their country

The excruciation of seeing your folks drenched in the pool  of their own plasma 
In misery and pain 
End sars !!!

A peaceful assert gone sour 
A placid municipality gone mad.
Their tongues pierces the legs of the law.
Riffraffs turned the city into a place of consternation and complete disorderliness .

The colours of the day; black - the pain we faced, red - the death of our folks.
Our pendant is soaked with the blood of our loved ones.
The law hoisted their flag of defeat 
The betweenities upheaved their fist in unanimity.
Stop the killing.

6, TITLE: LASHED
     LOVE AND DEATH,
Love has no place in Mama's heart 
Men could be flowers
Flower withers
A gentle breeze choke the lungs of mama.
Witnessed Mama's sorry first hand
Chaotic, tied down
The devil's hand caress a body, sweet lullaby, voice of an Angel, touch of a Good.
Hunted by the walls, lashes, marks, tears
Mahogany skin turn lip red
  Today I write the end of Mama's sorrows.

7,TITLE: NEVER HAVE I
Never have I walked the shores of beauty.
Life's a bitch, u are what you are
Looking at every imperfections in the mirror always asking why am I.
  Never have I smelt the flower of true love, thrown from left to right without destination. becoming a tool of fornication.
Oceans of tears on my pillow
Young and naive, they say
Drowning in my self created silence.
    Locked up like an plague, running from my shadow
"Impossible they say"
     Boys often "heroes" in my story
Frail and obsessed they say
Time passed leaving in regret
Hunted by the sound of slow playing music.
      Never have I. 

8, TITLE: SURVEYOR
 CALM DOWN MAN
TRAPPED IN A LAND UNSPOKEN OF
HE SEE HIS HOLLOW END
I SAID TO HIM "TRY TRADING YOUR SOUL INTO DUST"
AT THE END IT'S GIVE AND TAKE.

9, TITLE:TIME
UNSTOPPABLE
TRADITIONALLY SAYING THE SAME PARTICULAR WORDS.
THE WATCHMANS BEST FRIEND
EVERYONE'S ENEMY.

BIOGRAPHY
My name is Hannah Aipoh, I am sixteen years of age, l was born on the 23rd of February 2006 and I hail from Estako east local government area Edo state Nigeria. I am the first of five children and the first daughter of two girls.
 I aspire to be a gynaecologist and a poet laureate.

Forgotten / twirl           

- how easy to be a roving corolla; to be the left wing 
of a butterfly, fluttering 
through a garden of memories, infest by thistles, 
infest by whatever the gun left behind. 

last week, a chapel was invaded & all present 
left a landmark of a crimson river. 

in my calligraphy, every letter is a florid stain
of a body, rippling & 
forming a col. 

in this poem, everything is all about grief. 
i heard memories are the biological 
father of pain, often tearing into your mind. 

& i don't know how to sift pain out of 
this body / to sift myself from this lack
of wilting something calories. 

but i do know that to sieve myself
will touch this little cornflower, hiding 
behind the bars of my ribs. 

so i hide myself, beside the grave 
of a mother, whose chest form a 
cladding for me during a gun battle. 

& this is not the first time i reel 
to this point. my aims were clear: 
to see if a bluebell lush will sprout 
from her grave. / to see if the requiem 
of her portrait will revolve again. 

but every night i revisit, night respond 
with a rhetorical silence. & i thought 
everything is gone. i thought the 
refulgent of my hope has wreck into
this night. i thought that the myth 

that proclaim spirits wear the moon
to see their love ones have effect, 
& my mother, wreck into a black
indigo of nothingness. 

this night, i filch out again. the tarmac roads
so attentive that they echo my footsteps 
& i feel i was turning a knob of something, feral. 

same - the moon went into extinction. & i 
break my toe on a gravestone. i knew this
mother was warning me to stop obstructing 
her sleep / to stop trucking back to 
memories. so i left everything on a flower - 
a rose flower - i drop on the top. 

i left every memory there & walk out - 
walk out of the repose; walk into a life 
still shredding people like a deciduous 
tree. one day - someday - i, too, will be 
forgotten this way. 



Springs - Heaven's Droplets 

Every dawn, I revolve into a garden of
meadows. At this point, the grass have
recoil in warm bathe from heaven. To
walk there will enthrall one in a svelte, to
always refurbish after a bedevil life. 
Once, I was a boy praying that the miry
of lack - poverty - sinking my family will
be dry. Heaven knows how much I 
scrolls this prayer before their tablecloth. 
Even before this poem was birth & 
bath, I was on a rusty way to the brook chapel 
to wash my family's curse, milk on garbs. 
My foot, clashing against the pebbles. 
That means, troubles. That means, the 
way to cleanliness is a sanguinary & 
needs something red to rewash itself. 
That means, everything wants to wash 
itself all the memories, sticking on a hairy 
skin. Here, if you don't wash yourself, you are 
a walking corpse, carrion. You are leprosy, 
nobody will wish to clash. So I take my buta*
& refill it with the springs left in the well - 
getting gabby. I know if I must blush like the 
grass, I must wet this body; flux out everything 
that makes me ooze rancid breath before God. 
So I pray, my head on the mat, that: God, give me
this heavenly springs, before I wilt & twirl.  


Buta: it means a little kettle, use by Muslim to do absolution. 


Wrecking 

          After Chibueze Obunadike, how to eat a father's sin 

anytime my father chap a tree, i carve the former
& the aftermath. how i will come to miss the tree 
& the fruit it produce. how the leaves, forming a 
debris on the floor, will etch grief on my brain. 

to eat a father's sin is to take a kola from my father's
palm & chew: my teeth, browning like his. how i look
old from the way i munch. he do tell me how much 
his grandfather love to break a lobe daily & offer him 
one. after his dead, responsibility were shred to each
child to wash the debts his father left behind. & that

debilitates him, sweeps him into the stream of solitude. 
where i come from, we are living in claustrophobic hamlet 
& everyone fears, debts spread like flood & enclose 
every home. my father once gargle a palm gourd of 
about a future & i was the collateral. in another, 
he induce an urchin & the street knows me for
trudging. & now my father chaps a tree, a fecund tree
which i will spent days, drudging to breath life to
the scion faggots. 



Grievous monologue 


I

& there was rain. A voice from heaven 
telling me I must bath in its springs, if 
I want to be clean. If I want to be free 
from all grievous cobwebs, stitching 
to my reins. 

II 

How easily to be swindle. I mean, find 
a rhetorical & watch yourself sway with 
the wind. I was woo by the wind, a breath
from grief & I inhale more than enough. 
There's always a releasing whenever I 
exhale & heaviness anytime I inhale. 

III

In this part of the earth, I have watch people 
live with grief as a cloth & call it a souvenir 
from God. All their effort to erode the threads
is merely a daily routine - I mean: wash, dry 
& rewear into the same agony. 

& I have heard one asks: what is the use of
shaving when another hairs will regrow? 

IV

I walk into a basilica one time in August. 
The heavens were reseating all their tears 
into clouds, & waiting for a moment to sieve
them out. 

I met the pastor, whose teeth preach peace;
preach gnawing - meaning, come unto me & 
I will chew your problems like cola. I biography 
my life, in a way a screed will be needed. 

But he mustify his mist, shook a loom at me. 
He said my problem is a rock he can't chew. 
Said my problem is a train, driving to its location, 
of which a mere wedge can't clog. 

I swallow them back, into a belly & wobble, my mind
hobbling. 

V 

What can I do to eradicate this grief 
infusing into my biography like an 
inevitable comma? There's more to 
life that just procuring a solution. 

What can I do to soften this grief 
for my body bearing the burden? 
Will you teach me, hummingbird? 
How you carry a message without 
thrumming a jeremiad? I want to be 
the next eulogy in the mouth of wind, 
to inhale & not feel heaviness. 

So Lord, I am in Your sanctuary with
Hannah. My lips, rarely splitting. My
heart, sacred to Matthew 11:28. 
Soften my yoke now before I break into 
shards. 



A Friday I Hold A Mist Of My Uncle 
  
          Friday is a of solemn prayer in my mouth. 
         Chibueze Obunadika 


Still skinny as ever,  my uncle stretch himself over
the mat that was soon to carry his back into a night 
that will have no voice or light. My uncle said it's a 
way of keeping the mat holy, that when it bedriddens
him, fire will not gush from inferno to carpet the mat;
but music from alujuna. On days when he laid himself 
on the mat as though the walls were a god & he was
kissing his feet, I question him on why he must 
murmur words into the air. He would say, to kiss the
air before the air kiss him goodbye. I swear, I saw this 
obliging homesickness as schizophrenia carving out 
of his mind, when insomnia seize sleep as hostage. 
He said it this night & his voice was thin, as if tilting 
on something that was soon to let it go. Night flood 
down with a filming lunar, perforating our curtain. &
his voice was like an organ, about to complete a hymn. 
He draws me, so close, our breaths - sultry & wintry, 
entwining, on a mat. He said: when my breath freeze 
to flux, let me dwell with my prayer mat, my holy mat. 


 A rendition to Abiku, when harmattan scarified our skins. 

there's a cry inside:  first joy;    then death 
morphing the green leaf to yellow  & twirl.  outside 

       there's breeze.       outside, there's wheeze 
       of pain & ferric chloride agony. 

dear Abiku, i see your star(dom)    
how it trails with the mockingbirds       to scorn
           our last hope.     how the owls 

carrying your voice, saying: arise, there's no antidote 
to the plague. 

____________________ 

i wake up this morning & your face stride
past like a firefly in my eyes. 
i know i have anew wedge to lift - pain, 
something uneasy to bypass. 

outside, the family sits again to decide 
how the placenta will not regrow in the
woman's womb, to birth Abiku again. 
& i know this method is mouth: once 
the words windfall, they will dried like 
spittle. 

outside, the breeze is blowing again. 
outside, the walls & skins are being 
scarified from the breath of Abiku. 

Doors

Doors stick to the shoes I chew the souls out of quiet residential area 51’s coming apart at the un-planeted sentence – knife in prism – oh, affect! Dual good. God’s fencing Alice dragging on a drag queen’s doubled joint to stroke your Facebook gives me a psychic shucks. Chic, this is the skusb of something rootable, and this time it’s not Deleuze and all. It’s delusional. No fucks.

So, we put our likelihoods up cos I know a tap house from how the foot’s fucked. I don’t need to read it. My robbing hoods scoff at the stares that eeked in and spun out for meters, meteors, meatier if you know to meet us on the borderline of personality and taste to order refinement. It puts minds at tease, into violins, their hidden violence, missing personas of interest rates plummet, sic as the plumbing stolen by a cut throat, moaning dew due to be replace exactly like won’t my gut be. 

I’ll be raising you to the mourning of my own death, uploading it to the houso complex cloud above for Groucho and Marx. As close as we get to the lock of a plot are – ouch – these light globes that halo me into debt, and collections to let said debts RIP – this one is a faery’s tale of WOAH, a steaming stream of consciousness, piled up obnoxiously in the noughties corner. Oh, no! 

Now we owe millions of years. Yesterday, it was billions. So, tiers… your derro predilection of booty is going out with their head space rolled out the red carpet, ace as a sigh. Gap. Me bolt. Later, Leda and I watched and streamed at each other watching Black Swan, live as a wire acting on. “I jut wanted a wife with greater resolution.”

Our notions breeze suss as fuck it, you, that, etc. Dead convolution, conversation. Killing me, matey, just shows I never die. It’s cultured, imperial; perma-fried, chips you can’t bets’re off spreading the wards of AD. You’ve got to fail the grade to pass off the test. Made to disorder truths here can cough. We’ll dismiss them as meaningless. 

Aladdin’s hand me downs

My tongue deviates in fountains. You’ll never escape our prying highs. I just wanted a wife with greater resolution. Non omnis moriar.
I know what you did: lost summer. Precedings were adjourned, down under the shade of the Coolabah box, and burnt. I say that at the risk of repeating my selves. My shelves circle, though, loan sharky, defeating that purpose, as if on purpose, or drug use.

Everybody wants to relax like my jeans don’t, drool the world. Erase by serial numbers. Stop the quotes. We’re a long way from home ownership the nigh away to be from me.

More crystalline stumble shows you on TV over fur, fifty livers later. In those days, the sun flat fell, no setting – up or down. 

Up. I hover about the bitching; phew. Screams and schemas were heard at least three days ago.

Tomorrow’s yesterday with a wig on!!!!!!! The time is out of points. I’m fuelled by your stare.

Later,  I prove lowlife’s what you make it; my atoms cun. My body went awol, but flows and ers were Bloomian beneath my feat. TF1 was the careerist of the queer. 

Rack the sky. Wanna see a status go? Between the lines, verb of preference preceding. 

And just. Stay fed uploading metadata – her dad’s eyes pickling in a jar under the masses’ hysteria was made common sense to transfer me all your money is no good here we only take long walks away from key change’s welcome but mu cusp remains of enemies empty. Best practice.

You know, drop boxing me into the shit fields forever back down load the idea shot by shot surf scratched it till a tunnel vision of you, lost. “Excuse me, sir,” they misgendered me, “I’m making a scene for futurity to dismember and me to live on in the ellipses of Gods.” Their silence left it up right down to Pluto. Plus, I was empty hearted and cashed.

But it just might have been sass addiction, how I went out with a big bang the babe is old enough to know pigs can fly. It began in social media res (It didn’t; ask Medea). I cleaned my glasses, but I think my eyes were wobbly: they kept failing to a lauded gun. I only do other people’s lives. The prying is optional. 

It’s drop it like it cold war shit. Make a strackie. You swore at me till death do part your legs still follow me around fucking Newtown. I’m the closest drug relation of your Hotel Delirium. Pay more intention.

When I do, my imagination gets itchy. Like, I was the only one without a gun to my head case split open that night I saw tear gas in your eyes, sighed off on a MAD tea party. It ended the great depression in verse. It was too brag to veil: trace and bullets = new points of entropy, etorndy. Then, she sentenced me to wash the dishes. I thought it was a homophone. 

So again the poem turned on a crimewave, and the suspense is billing me. You’d think it all aver, says my monologue, taking me under – or over – like a boss. But I was barely dying, so….

But then the hissing of your fractured eyes sink holed me up. Mx 8-ball, and it’s what it’s. So, I sent a WhatsApp message: share the sea to my savage slideshow ons if you’re walk. Now they’ve got a cold, and the air is creaky. Freaky.

I started ceased and deceased but still riding poems, thus…. How’s that for starvation of thought?

Dressed to the 999s, the moon is up to get me, the sun is down to fuck me. “Medusa is on. I added the seasoning from hell. Gotta split, love.”

Doing so makes two question marks, minus some dots.

War and peace. 
 

The vamphorskes

Your Mcmansions started it, this disease with which I yawn. All of.mine were devised with this door of opportunity cost sucked through an early bird catching a wormhole.   It was unpredictable as any opera about soap, the movements of these pixels through the hour glass we figure ate the days of our lies. Did someone say complaint by numbers? 

What about my inhumanable alien rights; aren't they enshrined somewhere?  Look! Owning up to the bush, doof-head, will not make your convention oven good for resale, or anything at all. Yes, I know I said my buddy is a temple - that's because it's me and he is one. We slide our tithe in between, yeah, his teeth. Not so radical. True. Granting what is and isn't funny bones hard, adrift from my fucks, or preferences theyre for. I guess ploy for them make like cats and back into the lamp, right? Make it now and void, so I did. 

So, am I excepted to try rubbing it the wrong way round? A low revs in, but not as response too, and that they're the greatest bid this moment complaints by numbers of living dead is off too, I spose. Bully is the pulped it word of the minute. They girt us anyway, a notional anthem for four eyes. Was there a way out of lined with - line - situations such as this, or a way one needs improve - note without the E. Spare change? Much ado, nothing will convince. It's like an emotion sickness - recalcitrant, shitty. Squawks are shifty until in demand, demented tragic comedy, ala you, allah.

Voldemort was bothered by everything also. What? Despite all my wage, this wetness caging me, concrete following me up stairs taken to circumnavigate the stares, the elevator, rude I will on the not be, Mr Your Honour. The century bangs onwards, remixing the books so the invoice of this degeneration is sex. No more subtleties - ching ching - register cash? You're getting off my Nirvana, standing on my Husqvarna.  Cultural cringe. Gold syringe the masses hysteria made common sense to transfer all your money is piecemeal and bought up, peace's boarded up, water not included. Is that what's called a meal deal breaker? War and peace out, Grinch.  

(Parking lots of you... Best form a disorderly line up, but no expressions that are not expropriate, Ok?) ...Jesus, mythed up the pointillism, too, entirely contravening our lost lesion. Part the art's not at all, historically speaking, to work off the corruption that was its genetics. MDNA. It could have happened tomorrow, today, but we're here, now, and we copyrighting it don't. There's a parody with which to explain something obvious imported in there somewhere. I'm an anarchist, allegedly. I'll raise anything black - powers, say, but I'd hate myself for milking it like a mural. 

Everyone in da house here lives on the edge, had a dream whose living solution was never land, nor discussing how we shared them between us. They leave us closer to witches than riches, the looks they insist on grabbing rattle us, but industry, we snake, bite into the Adam's apple. Eve runs with, rather, this garden of our forking tongue twister games, a pricked pin here and there, code for "glitch this  Genius sparks as I stroke your face gives me an electric chair to pull up anywhere. 

Grate again because freeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee Our up. We can do it with one Swiftian motion, adjourned till there's woven a politic with more body. This one holds its heads up in its hands, by its waist, going up and down, a value, toxic. Low or high, we're wasted. But only as regards sobriety's spectacle - it's you can see, but you can't like. We're above the influence here, crunching epidemics out of all proportion. Caesar's chicken salad now we're death-marching for our lives back up slowly and keep your hands in the air like you just don't care.  

Sure, I'm stupid, but it's like a fox. Flying over your head, lazy dog, the pupils left; our eyes are all white, hey. Shut that wide open road. Scholars ship these mallets. It's a walkthrough we'll never long, bottoms, be maid or privy to. I'm no Alex Jonestown massacre, but the Crimean war is that never ending storey, a God dammed Ummmmms race. The fall out is boy. Times leaves us fools, ranked rank wank amateurs. Recording everything clicks heals into place. The tape gets trips The corner we're in backs off. Huh? The mirror's a producer of ash. Beeeeep. Beeeeep. Smirk machines make an audience grin. The glint is similar. These cameras get it out their eyes. Fins circle, classically open and wide

That jerk isn't forlorn anymote

Morry pranksters and fateful mcMans guzzling inside out means or prediction. Erudite or or Eros date! A comedy of terrors fellows me off Instagram - insta glam. Mort as any lake, we over and in redcline, wristwatch the Lakers play up down left right up two start select up. Chew chews the alternative - delete control. Traumaturgy be out now illegal discipline. Slap the fetus from Nirvana's wee box, beating still as a symbol don't. Noh udder cymbals fit. We're simple samples served and on ice. Winter came little roo, and too late. I'd like two lattes, earlier, puh-lease, but with a shot of rum to the headspace as well. This jokes too big to be funny for its boots, you foghorn leghorn posse. mead the ows. These might fit

The Rainstorm

I sit here
11:40 p.m.
Listening to
a rainstorm.

There can't
be many
better feelings
than this.

Than being
safe inside,
and
hearing the
elements
outside.

The rain
hammering,

battering at
your window,

as you drink
your last drink.

Give your cat,
and dog a
goodnight
stroke,

turn off the
lights, and
just lay there

listening to
the rain.

Falling,
falling,
falling. 


They Are There

I've really,
really enjoyed
tonight.

Catching up
with a friend.
Consuming
both red, and
white wines,
and whisky.

But that's
far from the
most enjoyable
part of the night.

That would be
the conversation,
the laughter, of
which there was
plenty.

Sometimes I feel
quite misanthropic,
but nights like tonight
show me just what a
fool I am.

Yes, some people
are monsters, but
there are also the
other type.

The genuinely good
ones, I'll admit that
you don't come across
them very often, but
they are there. 


Buddhist-Curious

Once upon a time,
I was reading up on
Buddhism.

I was feeling very
depressed, and one
of the first things I
saw was that one of
the four Universal
Truths is that, " All
Life Is Suffering."

The way I was feeling
right then, I was very
impressed with that.

It really struck me as a
Universal Truth.

I read more about
Buddhism.

But, a year later,
I realised that,
it's not quite true.

Not in the slightest.

I'll agree that a Hell
of a lot of life is
suffering, but no
way is all of it.

There's sex,
although it's a
long time since
I last had it.

Music, poetry,
comedy, drinking.

A walk in the
sunshine.

A beautiful meadow,
my beautiful pets .

Yes .

There's a lot of
suffering, but
there are also
a lot of good 
times.

A lot of fun.

GOD was always with Me

 

My eyes see the colorful cross with a horizon. 

Quietly thoughts turn to God and his creation. 

These moments remind me of a life saved by love.  

 

A cross that reflects a light gives warmth to a soul.  

Comfort comes in the subtleness of a life given by God. 

Jesus’ life gives everlasting freedom of a soul given in passion.  

 

Light from the colorful stained-glass windows.  

Knowing that redemption has transformed my soul.  

Kneeling at the altar contemplation of life eternal.  


 

    *The foggy day*


It's the time to wake up early

With the distress of fog 

The white cool air fills my room

With a sneezing sound.

It pushes me into bano (bathroom)

With my morning tools 

I open the tap 

The snowy water falls into the vase.

I run back to the room 

Jump into my bed and begin to 

Sleep with my pillow 

Which once I used to hug every night.