MANE

MANE Micheal Kobi Onwuazo “Dum stellae de caelo ceciderunt maxime occationem spectaculorum”

MANE TABLE OF CONTENTS [Written on the 30th of June 2023] Preface………………………………………………………………………………………….....3 Dolor ……………………………………………………………………………………………...4 Lepos………………………………………………………………………………………,,,,,,,,..19 Madames………………………………………………………………………………………....33 Satus.………………………………………………………………………………………...…...40 [Page numbers may vary depending on the format, the numbering for the contents is designed for the google docs standard.]

PREFACE This book is the second anthology of my 72 poems and it consists of 33 poems that are loosely similar in purpose, structure and content. The book contains poems that range from more personal and reflective poems in ‘Dolor’, to descriptions of places around the world in ‘Lepos’, to stories of 3 malevolent women in ‘Madames’ to finally my oldest poems in ‘Satus’. The name of this book is ‘Mane’ which means morning in Latin. I chose this name to further the duality between the two anthologies, as together both the anthologies are ‘Night’ and ‘Morning’, so they act almost as binaries for one another in cohesion and unison. Anyways, I hope you enjoy this anthology and I truly desire that you can take something meaningful out of this long piece after a profuse read. Thank you again for reading and thank you for your time.

DOLOR Lauda, Lukewarm, Conquest, Melancholia, Perish, Vanish, Canvas, Identity, Simple, Who am I?, Wondering

Lauda Shall it be worth the careful praise of the mighty, yet to be so deeply despised by my kind? To then be shuttered into neglect and silence. Shall I continue to receive words of adoration from those puissant and potent, those who possess power and assert dominance with a simple glare. Those whose words are like fire who can burn cities to ashes and cause the wilderly to cease with even the softest of letters they do love me dearly. Yet my own kin hates me from the gull of their blackened hearts, such opaqueness to which black finds fears and runs with calamities; from doth they do wish my demise. With every sad second they accurse me, and pray woefully for my downfall. With a jolly grin they give ordinances to peril to bring down my being to the trenches of sorrow. Shall it be worth this simple expense? To be worshipped in tongue and be hated in soul, to be brought to the top of the ladder for it to fall off its weak placard ledge. Why shall I bother with any men when both seek to input their feral nature into my spirit; to seed their evil deeds into my soul and compete to hold complete control. I truly long to love my mighty lords and my ravenous, bubbly kin, but that wish is comic when man’s lips brew and beam with sin. [July 1st 2022]

Lukewarm I float between the crests of the ocean and the puddle of air on top the denim sea; not drowning, nor buoyant, but slowly sinking deep into the darkness the sea craves to hide. Not buried by its grimness, not free in the air’s liberty but restrained by partiality. I am not the folk of the wise, nor the fool, nor the companion of the weak or the strong, those who possess beauty and those who lack it do see nothing towards me. Neither the rich nor the poor, the stable nor the crippling try to acknowledge my clear presence; not even a dream or a soul to vouch for my existence. I feel like even the earth has forgotten me, with all its inhabitants, no man has seen me, the waters fail to bathe me, my nourishment denies to satisfy me, the coldness scorns to freeze me, lightness hesitates to brighten me, emotions refuse to arouse me, words bend not to hear me and yet I dread the thought of insignificance. My actuality is erased even in my dialogue; lacking any substance to refer to me. I’m only a relic of memory, a shell for someone who still lives on, struggling to live a life with a long and treacherous path ahead. [June 25th 2022]

Conquest One day I wish for this conquest to be won, and the battle man warred to be forgotten. One day I wish for the chaos man caused to be carried away in the vast ocean’s casket. Why shall man wish to take leverage in the suffering of the masses, how can their crooked teeth smile? Why shall man be glad in joyless weeping or laugh in shattered dreams they left behind? I reject the mystery the world calls unto me and tries to lead me to their confusion, to collude with my enemies to then savage me with their fiery pride. I dabble not inside the forgery of morality men entice of me, project onto me and desire wholly of me. I refuse to walk their poisoned path or trek their pitless journey, which only leads them to bleed in their darkness. It simply does not profit me to count on their clock whose time has already expired. I wish it be that this war against morals be ended with the murder of those vowed against everything good, so the earth can rest solemnly; free of man’s bloodthirsty mood. [June 23rd 2022]

Melancholia You have fallen from grace like a dove shut up from heaven; dragged down to the arid sands to be swallowed by the faceless sea. Ye have sabotaged your own future and have taken it and drowned it with your dry, airless blood. Ye have removed any hope for it to grow stronger, removing the base from which it stands, wobbling the fragile hands it struggles to have; testing its thinning limitations. Ye have plucked out your eyes in your deafness, and have severed reason from its toes. Like a banshee you walk around like a feral, feeding off the scraps your diligence left behind. You struggle to cope with failure yet failure has proudly signatured over your shrivelled body. Your tears are like salt bricks clumping out of your nauseous eyes. Your weeping is a noise that all earth squirms to listen to. Your awards have bleached like perished corals, siphoned from its previous glory. All your achievements have decayed alongside your entirety, aged with the years that feels like infinity’s playground. The ones you adore have come to hate you. Your vain worship has turned into declarations of aversion. You had a life filled with glory but have given it up for desertion. Just like the loneliest of crooks and spineless felons you lack the companionship to thrive, yet exist only to be tortured by the bitterness of eternal torment. There is no purpose to your sadness, there is nothing left to weep, all your value has flown away and only sadness begs to stay. Trying to bare with melancholia, you add a smile to your frown, but it remains anguished, turned completely upside down. You simply are orphaned to emotions, to the feelings of pleasure or pain, sitting there without conscience, without a life where peace remains. [May 31st 2022]

Perish Why shall ye grip onto your life ye mortal bound to perish, to be swallowed and spat out in demise’s loss. To be married away into death’s silence and kept intimate with its stagnant cross. Accept your destined fate sad mortal, to suffer a sickly demise, where no moon shall ever glow nor sun shall ever shine. Be confined into the infinity, into the shadow to which death prevails, where the raven lurks merrily to the song of thirsty wails. Why live in this delay, when your reaper is glad to come, when his sickle is ready to finish the sluggish work life has barely done. Embrace the tide of darkness, forget everything that is yours, and find homage in the many curses that death’s tongue has firmly assured. Let your gains reduce to the coffins recession, your pride be shut up in the dirt, far away from any lovers; any mothers to console your deep hurt. To the grave death finds rejoicing, in his dark chasms doth he find great joy, but for all the souls he hath jailed, all hope has been destroyed. [May 25th 2022]

Vanish Nothing seems to stir in this frozen pitless air, everything is still and reeks of firm despair. All the cretins have retreated to their dank muddy mills as the wind’s warmth has been extinguished. Fire has relinquished its heat and the water’s whistle has dried to vapour. Flowers grayly compost, beauty surrenders its glow, and now it seems there is nowhere where thrill can be known. No youthful giggling or melodies to soothe your saddened ears, not even chilling sounds to arouse some senseless fears. Deaf are you to the pin drop of a needle or the static of the rain; there is nothing but pain in this world of desolation! Raw of the bitterness that darkness craves, you dread the feeling of feeling none, hurting none, hearing none which is too much for any sane mind to bear. Even the smells which you detest, and loathe with the deepest of your decay; to even sniff and be pleased with any foul odour that simple request cannot be granted. The world is in every way dead and its story seems to be finished. It’s an adventure to you no more, yet you live stuck in the trap of existence. Your only request is to vanish but vanish you cannot; there is no escape. Here you must remain! Forever — To be a soul bound in peril. [May 9th 2022]

Canvas I was once a blank canvas, unpainted and untouched; void of the colour of clamour and the disturbance of the world around. But then I was betrayed by the painter’s brush laid down on me, who pressed into my skin, my every part of me. The background that was vacant was sprinkled by brisky bristles, sharply injecting me like thick lurid missiles. They washed me with poisoned colour yet I felt naked in those hues, as even with the chromas I could only feel more blue. The artist’s ambition laughed at me and scorned me for being bland, when being without colour was the only way I could stand. Every ink soaked me with a touch of depleted gift; ruining what was once perfect by their artsy yet nasty twist. The paint slathered me entirely and caressed down my painting square, to every corner and idle edge and every lick the painting spared. They bleached and littered my canvas, leaving me shattered and all alone, with broken remnants of the sturdy canvas I once called my dearest home. Invisible laid the canvas even with all the colour it contained, as nothing was ever made out of the lonely painting which remained. [May 7th 2022]

Identity Be not confined to inertial motions but mother calamities that never rest Or change to appease an unquenchable crowd yet hide to avoid their protest- And clothe yourself in a stranger’s clothing while your mind is stripped and bare And pursue an ardour of ferocity yet be frightened by simple snares. Do not turn to abasement to deal with turmoil when the world is full of pompous And do little to shield yourself from the liar’s and fraud’s ill promise And give up your future for the brief pleasures of passing day For temperance shall brew triumph yet defiance shall sprout pain. Do not scrap your creativity to conform to puerile normalcy But shine great and brightly and let your passion be as lightning!

And do not fear and tremble when no harm is even near; But result to indignant violence when your pride feels hushed and silenced. Do not engage in delinquency — a far and foreign path; A story filled with torment and troubled by childish angst. And mourn when you feel the occasion of grieving and burst out when you’re full of rage And give not to the hands of sleeplessness but to the arms of hearty age. I tell you all of this so that you may master mal adversities; Like that of a valiant lion that thrashes life’s infirmities. [April 4th 2022]

Simple Simple days follow simple rhythms, beating to the meter of reclusion. In simple days lies simple pleasures, with simple tasks to win simple treasures. Simple pains caused by simple weather are dispelled by simple means and flimsy measures. Simple troubles are resolved by simple smiles as simple words end silly riles. Every encounter is structured and planned. Every emotion is intentless and bland. Every friend is an asset to spare, replaced and attained when their value is impaired. Adolescents seek humour to bare the thorn of ill regret, giggling their swollen hearts out of its content. Children seek addiction to hide from nasty snares; alone and counselees for direction. Savvy aspirations lead men to crippling debt, forcing them into reality that they seemed to forget. People favour the buzz of the club to the bore of excitless education, until their glasses no longer fill themselves and they are stuck in deprivation. Intellectuals scorn at those who live naively in emotion, and those who share compassion yet are sheep to a broken system. The old look down on the young for their obscenity and graphic deceit, but deep down they crave for the adventure the juvenile life has to reap; so tired of pedantic standards which they swoon over with such dread, but are disgusted at a confused generation which turns their ancient heads. In this world of disorder I wonder what future is to come, as a desperate fate awaits our world ruled by trash and earthly scum. [March 28th 2022]

Who am I? Who am I? --- Am I a result of the effort or burdensome strive I put into my every day; the rigour and painstaking labour I use to sow the success that I’ve attained through all my sour struggle and pestful hardship. Am I the result of the resilience and strength I put into hiding my intentions; my emotions and true colours of love and languish. I wonder with the tick of every senile second if this mask has led to the strong and savvy man I have raised for myself. Or am I the result of my circumstances of certain affluence, a simple beneficiary to society soaked with greed so heinous that it pains me even with all my cherished blessings. Merely another soul born into a system which keeps the poor in shambles profits the rich in their woeful misery. Who am I? Is this question necessary when I know myself in and out, my spirit a mirror revealing every speck and blemish that others cannot witness. When I already live to experience and feel both demise and delight I fail to find reason to explore my frail, sickle conscious. Shall I travel back to the sweltering summer to find myself with all the distractions summer had called unto me; reverting back to the ample trips my eyes had seen as I voyaged to every corner of this wide and imposing planet; forgetting myself in sterile bliss at the expense of those who had to slave away to survive in this cold and cruel planet. Or should I look back at the chill and bitterness of winter, a time of celebration and festivity but that of gloom and somber mentation. Lightless were the clouds and the stars only twinkled softly like a sick mockery as the sky was without the sun every day of that sad and sorry winter. The sinister element of winter forcing me to grow out of the thoughts tenderly nurtured by family and friends as we gathered to celebrate Christmas

and the damning fate of another year to come; knowing there was one less year I had to breathe, to walk this bankrupt earth, to live out my expiring youth, and yet even with all those years gone I still have no idea who I am, what I am, and what I am to come. Who am I? Am I simply a deluge of cluttered flesh assembled to form the cretin I call my own, or am I a gift banished from above; solely a vulnerable soul cast out from a pure and pious heaven and left unto my mother as reparations for the trials of gestation. If I was to know myself truly I would have no hope in the falsehood of future; unaroused by thrill and futile fervour but by fear and angst and tumult. Life itself would become a recurring torture which never silences itself; a mantra of mal that will taunt me gravely until I shut my eyes whole for the very final time. --- So out of all of this dizzy diction, I want to ask you? Who am I? [May 9th 2023]

Wondering I don’t wanna be somewhere I’m not wanted or cared A place where my personality is weak, oppressed and scared Subjected to humiliation and my mind is not free; Constrained by this world and its views on me. --- Where I carry my burdens on my arms and waist, My shoulders, grey ankles and every other place; Continuing life with no thrill or pride And never really seeing its happier side. --- Though there’s a limit to how tame I’ll be Until a breaking point of anger and rage Sinking and sinking into a depressive craze Where one’s emotions run loud and lame And all the world seems small and vain, But then you sober and you’re back to life Where nothing seems any just or right. --- Because every day things never change;

Stuck in a cycle that drives one insane That drains all hope of getting anywhere When all paths lead to virtual despair. --- No answers, No justice, What can one do? To escape this cycle, I have no clue All one can do is sit back and hush For big words will cause too much of a fuss. --- Lost, I meander and I go to wonder Why this life cannot be funner? Why I can’t be a man in joy Instead of feeling all destroyed. --- So fond am I of the happy times Where I lost myself in nursery rhymes; Enjoying life without the sadness That life has given me in all this madness. [January 30th 2022]

LEPOS Garden, Athenas, Sahara, Wintered Taiga, Expiring, Deutsche Ebene, Siccus

Garden The glee garden is set to perfection. Pink cherry blossoms slowly twirl their way down candy swaths of soft green grass. Glaring flowers sing with lovely smiles as they bloom with rich purple hues. Olive brushes are rolled into the sullen meadows below, covered in a lime green earthing. Colossal mountains watch on animated and awed by the searing solar eclipses. Peace is the mother tongue the sakura trees whistle as they spring out of winter like audacious rockets. Rambling paths fall deep and low, chiming perfectly through masses of logs and timber. The dreamy sky proceeds from cotton clouds and shiny stars gleam with a passionate dazzle. Cold, breezed lakes sneeze through doughy stones, piled like stacks of paper. Salt drizzles down warm ponds and rivers like a duck on buoyant water. Grasses sway with cheer as the swooshing winds engulf them. Brown, rusting leaves fall majestically off their branches and descend onto the luscious pillow of moist, cookie dirt.

All the garden rejoices with a sound so charming and peaceful. Nature is filled with contentment as their world is rewarding and fruitful. Petite chirping birdies glide through the tranquil sky as raindrops splash on their noses. Lambs gloat cute moanings as they scale the barbeque mountains. Fishes spin and dance with joy as they swim without the fear of being eaten; true freedom. Their land is set free, with happy breath abounding. The milky way and spiteful planets look onto it with frowning; The moon is in delight as he feels a sense of grounding. The garden lies untouched by all the creatures passing through, As the land in which the garden sits is jovial the garden grew. [March 16th 2022]

Athenas I boated down the smooth sailing waters of the aflush and rich Mediterranean. Their seas shone like the presence of an angel, with such a white pious glow so blinding it pierced your mortal eyes. Small waves manifested in tides and swirled in little ripples through the sapphire sea. Boats ploughed through fluttering rivers which seemed to be as colourful as Van Gogh’s palette; boasting of chromas of light and dark complexion layered with water so pure it was void of any imperfection. The closer I ventured, it seemed as if the little islands sat neatly by the gilded coast rose sharply from the Earth like the spire of an awesome castle; so beautifully coated with lemon mosses and feral vines that were plentiful as stars and planets. The soft stones that lived on top the tiny islands had skin so chocolate and creamy that they were more alluring than temptations, as even looking at the savoury rocks made me thirst for hunger as I desperately tried to back my urges into a corner. In the distance, you could spot a building hidden in the heights of the handsome mountains and bathing in the crests of the huge valleys and hollow caves. The distant sight of this guileful home was so flawless it ignited a flame of curiosity inside of me; one which could not be quenched or diminished by any earthly vessel. Playfully, I adventured down the paths carved out by feral deers and lambs, seemingly taking me to this majesty born of great wonder It was lined with red bricks so glossy it felt like polished ruby, with beige walls raised as high as the towering Himalayas. The inside of the mansion felt like a castle Renaissance royalty would subside in, and the inventive chambers whispered sentiments of antiqueness yet preservation. When night had dawned on that fantastic day, I could only gaze and ponder upon the magic laid effortlessly before my unworthy eyes.

Looking to the sky bereft with whites and blue. Turning to the waters which simmered with the moonlight, and the lands which lit up with fireflies, I was more than ecstatic. To ever be in such a seamless moment was to witness tranquillity at its finest. [March 16th 2022]

Sahara The air smells of raging fire, with dust scattered throughout the perilous, orange land. No creature can survive in this wasteland shaped to boil all things alive; so hot and treacherous like a glimpse of a torrid hell. The sky is splashed with botches of bromine and brass; spoiling the sky with an eerie stain. The sand feels like light crippled dust struggling to swim through the choking breath of savage winds; failing to drizzle like ocean-beach sand. The gust feels starved of any sort of flavour, and life seems to cease entirely. The sky is black and dark as charred debris as clouds have banished sunlight; shaving the horizon of its gleaming texture. Darkness breaks through the joy of any nomad; slashing their dreams like a broad, bladed sword. Loneliness is baked into the dunes, which surpasses the desolation in the deepest of warring trenches. The isolation is unbearable; a silent torture propagated by the sands and all that lives on the soil and the malign world under. Being lured by the lonely awe of the Sahel, you meet with the crossroads of a pond, but the oasis remained ostracized, away from any hope of growth. The pond is a beacon to the desert’s fleeting life, yet the trees rob the pond and fills its reservoirs with strife. Small frogs on lilies are dwarfed by invading sands, as they suffocate with the gnarly bands of hot and kidnapped strands. Tall trees snap and wither; undressed of their shine, as the corpse they leave behind is simply a testament to their time. This is why the Sahara is mighty, no life can exist

As even adventurers struggle to find hope in that abyss. [March 18th 2022]

Wintered Taiga The forest seems to narrow further and further, laughing and mocking you as you drive deeper. Haunting snow feels thick and heavy, so dense it pulls you back like chains of arduous iron. Freezing roads look glazed and slippery, yet dying as water surfaces from the tarmac snow. Black paint pressed into the highway stone cracks and fractures; looking destined to fail at any moment. Pulseless air filled with the iron tingle of chilling breeze is designed to make long blizzards seem like weak torrents in comparison. Coal skies abide high yet poorly lit as the sun has run away. Sideless hills are ruggedly carved by the sheer force of the winter’s precipitation. Grey clouds seem unbothered to gush more hail and dicey ice as they violently rain fluid into the edgeless trees and mountains. Only meek sounds of the melting snow and hissing winds lights up the bore of many mountains. The abandoned peaks and thin fields of the Taiga makes it seem like ghosts are lurking. The brittle sharp soil cuts through the hands and feet of any unlucky visitor. Looking around the area makes stillness take on another meaning, as the unnerving veracity of spiralling echos are so ominous and blanketed in mystery that the paranormal falls to madness. It makes a wise man doubt his brightness, as your mind struggles to feel sane and hear stably.

Just the sight of the Taiga feels as if ice is coughed into your eyes, as grinning icicles lash onto your helpless eyelids. The dead breeze tastes more flavourless than paper, like a giant hump of odourless smoke forced up your struggling lungs. Even feeling anything is torture as your fingers are cemented with unforgiving permafrost baked into your body and greying knees. The only sort of creatures which deplorably roam this abyss are migrating colonies of small, timid deer. Being close to them makes you feel the warmness of Greece, even though they vibrate and shiver uncontrollably. The bears have gone into hiding or leave to attend to a life free of woeful winter as their hunger grows and their fares freeze and die to naughty blizzards. The last manifestation of any sort of life looks to be only helpless wanderers who dared to travel into the inescapable net of frosty forest. Though the blank and bare Taiga seems to turn an eye on its chosen, as in the distance, some campers set up shop. Even as avalanches rip through the roads and rivers, people gather by their heated ponds. To them, the moon had always glittered with great displays of emerald rays and aurora constellations so well and dancing. The drained sky seemed to wash off its impurity early on in the foul winter and reveal the ink blues you’d see in the peak of summer. To them, starved dears were always fat and full of muscle, more powerful and energised than ever before; as if winter had no doing to their destiny in this brutal parallel. This peace though, would only last mere minutes as clouds and dense fog settled back in to bury and hide the houses, until one day there was nothing but the arid sky and the eeriness of empty silence which continues till date; unchallenged and unbroken. [March 22nd 2022]

Expiring Have you seen the definition of expiring? A world where canopies of greens have dwindled to weeded heath and branches snap and crisp, and spoil into the fog of the dreary midst. The only lonely trees are heavily hollowed and groaning, screaming to be fed by even a single drop of acid water, as they flare and perish in the rash red sun. Their waned wooden knees wobble roughly against its will, and their roots are slashed by the tigerish winds. Their leaves are plucked and bashed with every passing current of orange sands, and the scorching heat of the broiling desert boils the colour off the bark from the surviving trees. Even streams are arid and cold, dry and desiccated, barren and old. All the water has run to the sky, helping the wizened animals to suffer and die. The sound of nature is robbed by the moans of drudgery, as carcasses cluttered the sparse desert. The soil is starved and picked up by merciless winds with a dim defeated spirit. The sun seems to grin amusingly at your suffering, jeering and mocking your sensitive soul. It seemed the more you sweat and pant anxiously, the more the sun will radiate with the roasting heat of hellfire. The land crumples under your feet, and longs to swallow you like a lion prowling with hunger. The breeze drifts coldly through your starved legs, then without notice rebel and gnash your sweltered flesh. It would chill and frost you like icy froth, and slash at you frozen like a soulless rock.

Even the vultures, the demons which wandered the fallen sky were chased and shot out of the soaring clouds, then left to the compassion of the wicked sands of soot and huge swaths of sterile land. Any lingering signs of lowly life either dies or migrates for shade, thus the lack of soul to the inhospitable outback to this day. [March 22nd 2022]

Deutsche Ebene Ahh, what beats the pleasures of breezy winter, poised with the grace of thrilling spring, the elegance of fading autumn or the quiet whispers of oncoming summer? Only the Deutsche Ebene with such grandeur lost to man, by their ill and forlorn machines and the works of their malevolent hands. A garden littered with cherries, fauna and cute creeks, humble hills and meek mountains, with rosy bushes with pink cheeks. A wonder with a celestial horizon, glittering with the soft will of the breeze, and the great cliffs dribbling virility into rivers and nitid lakes. A place with many plains kissed with serenity and ample care, and restful solitude for pea green trees and mossy vines tangling down temperate forests. A sight with snuggled gorges hiding dimming shadows jumping giddily, ecstatic in delight as the sun loomed over to unravel its mystique. With a classic cabin baked into the deep creamy hills, with spruce so glossy it clothed your naked eyes. Enchanting was it to onlook to the garden, though all good tales have their tragic end. The sloom of forests was interrupted by the loud bashing trucks and pest poison; ailing flowers to flimsy growth. Their richness was made penniless by the weeding of those inadequate for market. Sadly, those alive were not spared as they were swiftly plucked and boxed to centres of commercial carnage. All the rivers were dried up and emptied to make way for barns of fat concrete. Men trampled numbed grass and used tractors to cut them to bony segments. The cabin was lit alight and the fire raged a ferocious flame so bloody its flare could be witnessed from heaven. The bees which swarmed the plagued air withered with the charcoal smoke and were cremated in the thick ashes remnant of the cabin.

Now the Deutsche Ebene with inexpressible belle has been reduced to shrubby rubble, no more a garden but swallowed in the German construction bubble. [March 28th 2022]

Siccus Only shadows could live off that Martian sea, such a cold wed pod of bitter water. Coughed-up red rock choked the fishes that barely made it out of infancy. The stale brick plaque that was left behind melted the clouds and the sky which sublimed in its erosion. Cat thangs bit into the waves and snapped the tides into miserable splashes. Fossils refused to emerge from the rock; mummified by the seabed as the river’s rashness did not seem worth such a sacrifice. Turtles docking to the sandless beaches found only shrivelled hope to cling onto as the rocks cracked and shattered with the simple brush of their webbed feet. Inland laid a bloody coast accursed with the souls lost at sea in their unwinnable battle. The bawlings of scrawny ghosts made blood-curdling screeches sounded like the voice of angels. The repentant screams of nature freaked scaly summer animals into hibernation as whole forests were put to the grave with rubble to indicate their untimely sorrow. The birds seemed no more fortunate as they were blessed with the poisoned air of lead, and wiggled their feathers which soon hardened to leather until they perished without a squeak of loathing. Chunks of flesh and mammal meat made landscapes into mass corpses, as maggots were littered like grasses on a hill; not a space without them in the horizon. The soil was juiceless, so thirsty and frail it drank its own vegetation to avoid starvation. The few weeds that survived the mass cleansing had to feed on the rain of arsenic. The trees had no saplings as they were black and botched like big blemishes that were shot down in a painless agony. Not even the stems of flowers retained a nauseous green or a bone white to add some flavour. When a cretin made it through all this torture its fate would be grimmer than the scare of death, and no pleading made mercy reconsider as it was left to the horrors it fatally met. Their brown skulls were the only sign of life that the dry oasis failed to hide, and hence its sorry mystery served as its only sinister pride. [July 20th 2022]

MADAMES Annete, Celine, Beatrice

Anette — [Madames] Chalked into the messy mountains was a bustling villa smacked quietly into the dull and boring forest. With listless trees so hollow and dead that the grave seemed more welcoming. Leached leaves leaping lazily from branch to branch seemed more despondent than misery itself. Rash and runny snow poured emptily off the slender cliffs and not even the hazel sky remained glistening as it was stowed away to be replaced by new mornings of gloomy winds and a bitter azure. Not imploded by this rotten world, the villa bounced with life. The careful stringing of the violin, alongside the harp’s notes waltzing together to the blissful melody, aggrandized by the gravity of the piano robbed the mountain’s sadness of its blue. The affluent couples poised brightly against each other, stepping to the merry opera-like rhythm made their subjects working in the harsh wintery conditions energized as the bleak atmosphere was offset by the simple delight of their cheerful aura. In this crowd set a madame drowning in crisp attire, with glued feathers so plenty that her gown did not lack a spot of embellishment. Her ring held many diamonds handpicked from the lavish mines of Alasce; dazzling crowds with its phenomenal splendour. Her charm was more than the the kind-hearted servant or the grumpy duchess whose pockets did not in the slightest to allure. Suitors flocked to her presence in a bid to be pleasured by her gentle words and unfightable belle. She was revered above the most stacked and terribly wealthy, placed higher than many lords or savvy nobles. Her beauty was so whimsical that kings bowed to her majesty, and with this grip on power she indulged in acts of treachery. And so she shared beds with those placed high in French society, kissing lords and dukedom as she littered wives with envy. She danced the devil’s dance with the young and pure of heart, and gave her chest to fathers whilst his children watched her art. Shame to her was meaningless for pleasure was her game! But soon she would find punishment for her cruel and immoral ways. Her fall was so rapid that her mind lost count of speed, for punishment was swift in the life of bourgeoisie. Her beauty took a hit and her skin dried as thin as dust, and her freckles and powdered lips did not garner the slightest lust. Her tears were gruelling yet sounded ugly, like a horse being sawed to two, and drizzled down her wicked dress and her perched feathers’ weak glue. She was despised and let out to the wilderness, to the frost and the awful stench, of rotting dears and hungry maggots in the castle’s lower

trench. There she slept without any slumber and died a very miserable death; alone in chilling winter as her soul was put to rest. [May 2nd 2022]

Celine - [Madames] Fear itself would tremble into a corner at her knees like a frightened child. Her words extinguished the light of life like a cloud of coal pounding down on a city. Every idle word spoken back to her majesty would end with a head tumbling down a weathered stage; stained with chilling swaths of red and their regicide-worthy objections. Unkeenly, crowds were forced to gather and witness the dread of the beheadings; many fell simply to the terrible agony of her helpless victims. Practically, her majesty ruled over man as she besieged the lousy trust of great armies and vast spoils kept within from their onslaughts. Thus with that power did she rob from the starving, from those whose bones grew weak and limbs came limp from occasions of scorny pestilence. Lo! they were not exempted from her reckless purges; withering whilst her soldiers scattered through their pillaged remains. All the tithing and taxes sought to benefit the silenced only filled her evil pockets, so large they made whole swaths of kingdoms vacant without an edible shrub or lump of barley in their path. Her palace was so lavish that her lanterns’ flames were blazed with ivory, even the smallest of amenities, the simple floral or the windows crack was laced with any of the jolly riches received from her savage conquests. Many commoners were condemned powerless to the dungeons of her fortress crested far into the nests of thick forest. Poor souls skittered through the grim colours of rustic chambers with the attentive oversight of famished guards and ladies; kept to watch without say or simply ousted to protect her regency. Other days when her mind didst not wonder, she made imagination from reality; materializing pure madness as sore horror broke loose amongst her nobles who were dramatized in mortifying plays. Where men were gashed and let out to bleed, their bones stoned open and cracked apart with her fists; their poor skin set alight to burn off their struggling bodies. Tired, and deeply troubled, they became vengeful under her reign, and soon they sook justice for all her torture and bloody pain. Like an army they assembled and brought together all their arms, and barged through the heaps of her handpicked thinning guards. They made their way to her throne and stood from where she ruled, and put her hands in chains and treated her like a fool. She was bent to the ground and her teeth were beaten out, and dragged across the itchy stone through her executions’ route. Her cotton blush was poisoned and her eyes turned deathly gray, so void of any life it was like her soul had departed away. Still they fumed with anger and bashed her skull with clubs, and doused her body in oil and put a flame to boil. Her body became kindled and her limbs jolted in pain, and all the men witnessed their great queen being slain. Time has passed, the season

changed, and peace has finally dawned, as the queen is now lifeless in the depths of the castle’s pond. [May 3rd 2022]

Beatrice — [Madames] There once laid an orange land, so mandarin a pulpy tint, it laid solemnly in the midst of the sun and clouds of mint. They rested quietly without trouble, undisturbed without a hick; without a tumult they lived in harmony, in good health and never sick. All would end without notice, without announcement she arrived, and soon the land would face the tale of helpless lovers and their demise. A madame of mystical origin, shrouded in superstitious lore; tales of magic and her sorcery and her sinister mendacious gore. She arrived neatly on the coast, with her skirt tucked up her lush blouse, and the winds which wailed with wrath, hastily lowered its fury-filled blasts. In its place placid winds composed by the marshlands sang of the abundance of its hills, the honey trees and yellow sands; the chameleon gorges and their great expanse. There a madam stepped off the boat and was greeted with such delight, with sweet voices and the birds chirping rosily and bright. The applauding of their empress only charmed the pretty dame, lifting her spirit immensely for the trip that she’d await. She boarded a wagon, cattle on straps, loaded with her riches and her torn-up map; set on that adventure, dazed and alone, as the clouds slowly retreated. Days had passed, and her highness was lost, bewildered by the feral and the vast forestry of swamps. Her wagon was made stuck by the mud of dirty springs, lurking with sickness and all kinds of nasty things. Then a man appeared out random in the blue, in the midst of her panic her knight helped her through, and carried her darling through the unforgiving thorns, tangled, prickly; he still charged forward. They settled on a land filled with swells of food to eat, with many loads of hog and lambs for them to take and breed. Nature held camel mountains, rife with endless fruit, and many other grains for them to live off and produce. They drank hearthy of the berries and plucked fruit without bounds, and mashed their produce to make savoury dishes for their mouths, and there grew a love, so passionate and so true, a bond which no force could try to pry their fingers into. Though their farmstead met with struggle and their nourishment dried up, until their treasure simply dwindled to a modest sack of slaughtered junk. Winter had come and hunger betrayed their thirsty throats, hoping to end their lives on an ominous note. Desperate for the fat of the sweet grapes the lovers craved, and dined on so abundantly in their more fortunate days, the lovers scavenged the lands but there was nothing to be found, for winter had killed all the plants and all the fruit around. Now, they were scrawny as their fingers iced in cold, and their skin became baggy and steadily grew more pale and old. Her majesty was so tired she belittled her starving knight, who saved her from her horror and her terrible plight; who distracted her from her journey, her

pilgrimage to town, where she would’ve been received with many blessings and warm palms. She drew out scabby wood and carved it to a prick, and shoved the spear down quickly through her lovers’ arm of stick. His blood was thin and arid as no food had quenched this man, and so the madam could not thirst on his torn and battered hands. Out of rage she stabbed ferociously every limb her eyes saw, even as he screamed his pleadings went unheard. Her rage severed her dearest into piles of mauled flesh, an odour so dreadful she grudgingly left; winter’s wickedness only smirked at her despair, as a pack of wolves came and thrashed her bone bare. Winter departs, the clouds return, the sun is here for its springy term, the flowers grow and cheer in thrill, whilst the trees awaken from their winter shrill. The deers regain their jolly prance, the bears rest soft on the leafy grass, yet the corpses rot in the swaying grass, ending the tale of their poor romance. [May 6th 2022]

SATUS Khata, Soirée, Gozo, Pena, Shiver, Falla, Pauvre, Social Butterfly, Trapped, Christmas in Africa, Khata Vol 2, Godless Gomorrah

Khata There is a pensive monster Adorned with viper teeth And lips that order carnage And all terrors that lay beneath --- And skin so ill and porous With blood drooping from his hands, All this speaks of me The great enemy of man! --- Defeat me if you can For I am the tempter. --- The flogging of orphan children, The toll of war on millions Delights me more than a disrobing smile could ever tell; And when the faultless are killed And their blood is splashed and spilt My world — of doom — is fulfilled. ---

When you hear my sneering voice The sweet song of rich decay The Psalm of malign misery Echoes of unceasing chains; The snickering in your barbarous pain, Know I am the maker of destitution. --- When worship is given to constructed idols And men set fire to your holy bible And truth is contorted alongside goodness And many are led off the path of pureness, Know I am the liar. --- When you see your neighbours sharing skin with strangers Or see love forced out of carnal danger Know I see them with much revolting favour As they are disciples of wicked flavour, For I master rape and fornicaiton. --- Take delight sad mortal To be abandoned in Gehenna below Where flesh burns off your timid bones And souls are cooked on the sweltering stove We all call the throbbing sea of fire,

For I am the deceiver. --- Run away with all your might I will smash your skull Leave your life for another parallel I will kill your soul. --- What choice do you have? Child of the unknown Your life is mine My life is your own. [October 1st 2021]

Soirée Children bask in the sun, Its feathers tickle their toes Light cuddles their lips And heat drizzles their clothes --- Trees mingle and daddle Leaves grow out and stroll; Walking up the quiet alleys Where flowers smile and roll --- Cars honk and trumpet Lively shops come to close As the sky widens its rainbows And rain thunders and goes --- The old lament on the past- On what thrill it used to be As a time to discover themselves In their rebellious teens ---

The mother carries her garment And brews some coffee and tea Resting near a fire To give break to her reddish knees --- The husband continues his trade And returns to his family’s home Greeting his wife and children- And his cozy evening foam --- Kidlings make memories As time is frozen still; Thinking nothing much of life Except the rising cotton hills --- The student lays back his pillow Upon his paper sheets Watching birds fly by And looking down to happy streets --- The lost meander the alleys Looking fervently for a feast But by serene evening’s time They feel rounded and complete

--- The celibate weeps sadly For they feel they’re on their own But at a peaceful time like this They are never alone- As they have loved ones Who love them as themselves And libraries of book Held on endless bookshelves --- Life is brought from dust The living is brought to death Yet a fragile balance is struck So neither is head --- Evening is a remedy, A good time to relax, But always make the most out of Life’s little time to slack. [October 31st 2021]

Gozo Joy was my rhapsody; the core of my miserable existence. --- As a child, joy presented a show to dazzle my virgin world of festivity and synthetic gladness, a sense of comfort in the fatalistic madness that swallowed the souls out of those undone by all the worries that life had brutally imposed onto them. --- As a boy, joy had become strained and skeletal, gearing me to a life bequeathed with trauma and profuse hardship that still haunts and distresses me to this rancid day. For in many hours, when I wished joy was hiding in wet darkness, waiting to deliver me from old, wenched anguish - it was merely dead to me. --- As a man, joy had both temper and fickle patience, for dare not I be appeased and stable in singularity, for joy thrived of my feeling of irregularity, knowing well a life made good for me, was one where joy had little need. So he to took to crushing trifling. --- As an elder, joy now has the last viperous laugh, as I meet with doom and all its wrath, and end is nearing with rapid speed, yet I remain a soul in need. So even though my spirit’s free, and I could travel the cobalt sea, I still live a life robbed complete of any glee; --- Joy has become my fatal rhapsody. [November 21st 2021]

Pena From my first airy breath To when my eyes opened wide I realized there was nothing That promise could provide. --- My best company was the cradle And the rocker to ease my thoughts But no amount of care Could revive my predestined loss. --- Somedays the windows grew gloomy And the clouds ruptured loud sighs; They echoed my future And my inevitable demise. --- Then I started growing Beyond my simple world And now I was tall So agile, like a bird! ---

I had gained a phoney freedom A dodgy but strange delight; I felt so completed But my luck did not sit tight. --- Though my conscience was no longer weary An aliment made me sore And the prickling of my bones Made my freedom less assured. --- My luck was eerily sipping Out my patchy hands I was my own master! Who was a servant to death’s demands. --- What was the matter! What sorcery was this? The sorcery of white ankles And these frail greying wrists. --- It was the abandonment, The pity laid on me The sad words of the doctor

And the grave I was to be. --- Time has decided its run Has come to a final end. And now no one can help me To the fate that I was already condemned. [November 24th 2021]