#woe. to the orang void to u

[lemonitenite]

Fanmodel of @pastadoughie s meowerrrrr

[gaiuswrites]

Ashore

Part one | Open Waters

Pairing: Frankie Morales x fem!Reader

Summary: You and Frankie leave the beach with only one thing on your minds.

Rating: Explicit

Word count: 3.6k~

Warnings/tags: smut, ✨butt stuff✨, oral (f receiving), some lovey-dovey shit

Notes: Here we are friends. You don’t necessarily have to read Open Waters to understand the contents of this chapter (considering it’s mostly just booty bumpin’). You can thank heathens @javierpcna and @whataperfectwasteoftime for the debauchery to follow. It’s been a while since I’ve written and I’m genuinely nervous to post this lol but alas. We have arrived. Is it shit? Is it pure filth? Who’s to say hehehe. Cheers bebes x

Masterlist | read it on ao3!

The worst part was, you had to get gas.

Frankie drives. You sit beside him.

The return trip is hushed with anticipation—with sullied stain-glass imagery occupying the void. You've said next to nothing since you packed into the car; the only noise comes from the radio—the preset station phasing in and out as you wind along the backroads leading away from the shore—Journey, Jimi, Led Zep and the like all crackling dry through the speakers.

Everything, each micro-movement, feels stifling— like burning ants under a magnifying glass— each gesture riddled with intention, Frankie’s words echoing clear in the caverns of your mind.

He glances left right at an intersection.

‘Anything?’

He flips on the turn signal, blinking one two one two one two.

‘You gonna let me have your tight little ass?’

He steers the wheel with the heel of his palm.

‘When I cum, it’s gonna be here—filling you up.’

The engine rumbles as you idle at a red light—stalling. Dawdling. The sun spills lazily from the horizon, draining the last of the afternoon’s light with it, bleeding the sky scarlet—emboldening the horizon— and you watch as the setting glow catches the hair on his arm—there, resting on the console between you. His hand fists over the gear, knuckles creasing as they tense around the worn, leathered head. You’re playing a game—a silent, ruleless game. You know he can sense you observing him, can feel the heat of your gaze weigh on the flex of his fingers—the same fingers that had ripped an orgasm out of you not two hours before.

You almost unbuckle your damn seatbelt and fly out of your chair. You nearly break with it, with the unspoken tension filling the car like gas and fuck, how you crave him; how you yearn to put those fingers in your mouth and suck—lave the summer clean off his digits and bob around the long width and—

The light turns green.

Frankie resumes his hand to the wheel, your lewd fantasy dissipating along with it.

It’s minuscule. You would have missed it save the fact that you’re so acutely aware of every fucking breath you two share in the aluminum confines of your old Jeep. It’s a subtle thing: Frankie adjusts his hips— innocent enough— but your eyes flicker over to find the groin of his drying swim trunks tented.

You’re not ashamed to say it— your mouth fucking waters, you salivate— and as if on cue, he squirms again, seeking relief from both the blood rushing south and the blister of your stare. His lips part— the rasp of an inhale as he prepares to speak—before his focus is torn down to the dashboard, an orange symbol popping up in the gauge stealing his attention.

“Shit,” Frankie mumbles under his breath. Looking around, he scans for a nearby station and groans at the realization that he’s just passed one, spotting it in the rearview mirror. “Shit.”

You swivel towards the passenger side window, attempting to hide the I told you so expression pulling wry at your mouth. Not that you’ll hang it over him, but you did inform Frankie that the tank was empty on the way to the beach. You hear another muffled curse come from the man beside you, and the world goes topsy-turvy and reverses itself— the act of Frankie making a grumbled U-turn.

He puts the gear into park with a huff, Van Halen’s solo abruptly cut short mid chord.

The car door opens with a rusty squeal and Frankie clambers out, fishing his wallet from his back pocket and swiping his card through the reader at the pump—but not before he squeezes a palm into the plush of your thigh, thumb searing like a brand into your skin. I’ll be quick.

Fuck, you could have cum right then.

Your gaze follows his movements, dogging after him as he waits on the gas to fill— arms folded across his chest, strong build leaning on the frame of your car.

It’s not a novel concept to you, but God is that man broad. The ratty t-shirt he wears clings to him, pulled taut between the plane of his shoulders, the cut of his tricep apparent even from your vantage point; the corded muscle running up his neck flashing as he watches the digital numbers on the screen tick higher.

Shit, you’re aching for him— you can feel yourself throb into the crotch of your swimsuit. You’d have him right here—in the backseat, steaming up the glass— if it weren’t for the overencumbered bags and rickety beach chairs crowding the space.

With herculean effort, you wrench your eyes off him in search of a distraction, letting them drift to the dark flooring of the car. It’s been dirtied—white flecks speckling the interior—and you won’t be able to get the sand out of the matted carpets for weeks. It’s a nuisance, to be sure, but you have to admit that you’re sort of fond of it; little memories, vestiges in the grains, lingering long after the season ends.

Hello, remember me? each granule chirped, remember when we laughed giddy for hours, maddened by the grace of the sun? Remember when we burned red that time we forgot sunscreen? Remember when we bought soft serve from the surf shack and it globbed sticky down our wrists? Remember when we when we when when when…

Frankie, ever practical, hates it. It’s a pain in the ass, he’s told you, regaling you with the woes only a mechanic would care to know. It ruins the upholstery.

You’ve had your exchanges about the topic—your faux-squabbled back and forths—and yet despite himself, he can’t help but like that you like it. Conceptually, he gets it—it annoys him to kingdom fucking come and he’ll almost certainly take the vacuum to the mats first thing tomorrow, but he understands. He understands it.

He understands you.

You’re like that, you and him. You’re different. You are made of different things, a compository of fractures and fragments. Mosaic tiles. You don’t quite fit—not all of you—but you never force the pieces into any sort of place. You admire each other’s mismatched bits, those sweetly quilted jigsaws, and you hold each one up to the light and point at the unique curves, the notches and swoops there, and say I love you, I love this, I love this too.

When Frankie keys up the ignition and puts the car in drive, he keeps his hand on your lap. Arm resting over the median dividing you, calloused palm sealing over your quad, his fingertips knead a pulse into the meat of your leg with each bump in the poorly paved road— a reminder. A vow. Almost home.

You think he does it just to torture you.

It fucking works.

/

The sound of laughter parts the front door as you enter— Frankie had made some colorful comment about your absolute favorite neighbors, the ones who always leave their damn garbage bins in front of your driveway— and your key ring clatters as it hits the bowl on the side table.

You discard the bags, plopping the sandy things down in the entryway, and kick off your sandals— bare soles padding along lacquered wood paneling as you head to the kitchen for some much needed water.

The sound of the tap running camouflages Frankie’s movement, you don’t hear him behind you. He’s got stealth in him, harbored there from before. He’s light on his feet when he chooses to be—nimble-like, bordering on feline—and you startle with a bubbly chuckle when you spin around to discover him far closer than you anticipated.

“What are you doing?”

“Keeping us hydrated,” you grin, as if it were obvious. You’re welcome.

He hums, the note rumbling against the cage of his ribs, and lessens the distance between you with a single stride. “That can wait.”

He rids you of the glasses, hurriedly placing them on the counter, and meets you in a kiss—and fuck can that man kiss. Frankie, like with all things, is responsive—attentive. His lips are fever-laced and wanton, and he roves against yours like they’re designed to— fated for no one else’s but your own— nipping and tonguing at your honeyed whines, orphaned there in the well of your mouth.

His hands vine up your body, so deprived of the luxury of your form - of touch - and he grabs at anything he can— your hips, your waist, your breasts through the cotton of your shirt— their half moon curves sitting ripe in his palms.

After ushering you up to the countertop, he strips you of your jean shorts, your bikini bottom sloughing down your calves along with them, and hoists your feet onto the fake granite, prying your legs wide for him.

When he gets an eyeful of your gleaming pussy, pearled with arousal, the wind gets punched straight out of him.

“Jesus honey,” he groans, “you been like this the whole ride home?”

Your brain is numb, lagging with lust. You don’t trust your voice to speak—all you can do is nod.

“Poor thing,” he simpers. “Poor pretty thing, all wound up for me—all wet.”

You whimper at his tone—graveled, just shy of condescending—and your knees weaken shut before he snatches them apart.

“Sit still.”

It’s a command, there’s no room for disobedience; he orders it with a soldier's voice—that dead thing he wears like dog tags around his neck. Vice grip widening your legs, Frankie sinks down onto his shins, head leveled with your core, engrossed with the sight of your damp sex quivering.

Blotchy warmth creeps up your neck, like ivy crawling over brick.

He’s staring at you— hungry and possessed and simply staring at your open cunt and you begin to fidget once more—riling under his umbered appraisal.

“Sit still baby girl,” he murmurs, softer now and desperate too—intoxicated with the heady perfume of your heat. “Lemme just— fuck, I gotta taste you…”

When he swipes the deft muscle of his tongue through your slit, your head careens back onto the cabinets, plates and bowls rattling behind the wood.

Oh god, Frankie.

He’s got a talent for this— an excruciating, body wracking talent. He thirsts for you something dangerous, something unquenchable; he tugs at your labia, forming his lips around your clit, lapping at your essence— the ocean musk, that sea foam wet.

You fumble through his hair, mussing the saline woven strands with urgent fingers as you grind grind grind, rolling your hips to meet him in a covetous show of want and he purrs into your pussy as you fuck his face, the scratch of his stubble chafing at your legs.

It doesn’t take long, not with the fervor of how he’s claiming your cunt with his mouth. You soak Frankie’s chin— you nearly fucking drown him with it—and he’s glistening with you when he finally emerges for air, pulling you to him to slant his lips against yours, letting you savor your own taste on his hot tongue.

“Bedroom. Now,” he husks, breath hitching as his nose grazes along your ear, and with two hands under your armpits, he gathers you off the countertop. Frankie lands a swat at the plump of your backside, sending you scurrying through the living room with a shriek—completely bypassing the abandoned pile of laundry left lying on the couch.

He smirks—delirious and ramrod stiff—sauntering behind you, enamored with the pendulum sway of your hips as you lead him to the bed.

/

You’ve never been here. You’ve never gone this far. You both have tiptoed this narrow line for months; he’s fingered your ass plenty—you have even gone so far as to don a butt plug. You’ve discussed anal—toyed with the idea, flirted in circles around it like tittering birds.

But you’ve never taken Frankie’s cock. Not yet.

He’s been working you loose and limber for the better part of fifteen minutes, delving himself knuckle deep into your slicked hole until you’re sputtering for more— until you’re downright sopping and fucking shaking— and not with trepidation but with desire. Frankie’s made you gluttonous. Frankie’s made you voracious.

You’re starving for him.

“You gonna let me have this now?” He presses a digit over your ass, kissing his thumb into the knot there.

You tremble, nodding frantic.

“Think this pretty little ass can take me, baby?”

He serves you a slap, plush skin jiggling and pricking pink under his palm. You keen into him, in search of the promise he’s been baiting you with and you arch your hips, gyrating back onto fucking nothing.

“Yes. Yes—” You twist, chin corkscrewed around to see him. You want to watch. You want to watch as he disappears inside you— as you swallow him.

“A-Are you sure?” he asks, suddenly gone gentle around the lines fraying from his eyes—those wrinkles he’s hard-earned and won, like badges, like medals—from all his years spent under an unforgiving sun, all of that which he has seen and endured. Survived. Your Frankie, always thoughtful, always checking. A goddamn gentleman, even now—even as his dick brays hard and angry against the soft of his tawny stomach. “Because really, we don’t have to—”

You cut him off with a whimper, splaying your pelvis up to him—spreading yourself, letting him see the filth dripping from your seam, dappling your inner thighs. “Fuck me,” you whine, both holes puckering for him. “Fill me up, like you said you would— please.”

Something shifts across his features like a shadow and his expression morphs until it steels— his pupils dilating to a predatorial onyx— and he spits into his palm, coating his shaft, jerking himself with it.

He hisses as he guides himself into you, as you accommodate around him, as you envelop him entirely— inch by veritable inch. He has to station a hand to the base of your lumbar, struggling to maintain his composure—air rattling in and out his lungs as he attempts to breathe.

“Shit,” he gasps, “t-this okay?”

You fist the comforter, coiling the fabric into a ball. It’s a stretch— it’s a real goddamn stretch— and briefly you consider that he might, in fact, snap you in two...

Francisco Morales is going to split you clean in half—and God, if you don’t you love it.

“Yes - yes baby - keep going. D-Don’t stop.”

He pitches into you, setting a legato tempo— transfixed by the lurid juncture where you converge into one. “You- you’re so tight. Shit, you’re—”

He silences himself with a delicious moan, biting at his lower lip until the vessels there burst and it purples, and deals a particularly aggressive thrust— one you respond to with an ugly wail of your own, eyes somersaulting in their sockets.

You’re both impatient, verging on rabid, and it doesn’t take long for him to set a rougher pace and fuck you faster - harder - hammering into your ass until you see stars, popping and fizzing in front of your retinas, a symphony of guttural grunts and carnal praise fogging up the bedroom.

Your pussy feels so empty you could cry—weeping and gaping and fluttering for him as he takes your tight ring of muscle, fucking himself to the hilt. It’s like he’s behind your brain—like he’s carved his way up your spine and nudging at the nape of your neck with how deep he’s driving into you—restless. Ceaseless. His balls slap slap slap against your puffy cunt and you pant— girlish and buoyant with the dulled smacks to your sore clit.

“Please,” you sob, “Please, I need—”

You can barely push the words out—your mind is of no help and your tongue lolls useless, languid in your mouth. Your motor functions have all but puttered to a halt, every scrap of you fighting to stay above the sensation that’s threatening to drag you under its current. The rip tide of it all, of Frankie’s cock, coursing through your ass, tempting to hurdle you out into the dark, wet blue.

“Tell me,” Frankie rasps, scraping through his throat. “Tell me, pretty baby.”

Your response is pathetic—you can hardly dignify it as a response at all. Your temple is pressed into the mattress, hair knotted with brine and sand, and all you can do is coo.

Frankie folds over you, angling himself to graze his teeth over your shoulder—savoring the salt and sex tang bathing your skin, all those pheromones and velveteen chemicals anointing you—baptizing you anew for him. He’s gruff when he murmurs, his beard grating your freshly tanned skin.

“C’mon sweetheart - hng, fuck - what do you need?”

“My clit,” you rush out, needy. “My clit. Please, oh my god Frankie I-I need you to, I need – oh fuck—” And your pleas are mummed by a rapturous moan as he trails his hand from the hollow of your hip to the apex of your cleft and flicks.

Fuck. Fuck, oh Christ—

There’s a ringing in your ears, buzzing you deaf, making you dumb—or maybe it’s just your heart, beating loud and errant against your skull—you can’t say. You don’t feel human. Frankie’s pounding into that cinched channel and playing with your clit—swiveling eddies into your swollen nub—and you feel like an animal. You feel debased. You feel disgusting and perfect and you’re fucking drooling; cheek squished and mouth agape, saliva pools from your wagging maw, darkening the white linen you’re being driven into.

“You need me in your pussy, too?”

He doesn’t wait for you to answer him— he already knows what you need, how you need to have every part of you gorged on him— and Frankie dips his fingertips into your entrance, hooking them up and up and in, fucking in time to the cant of his hips.

He’s in you. Everywhere, everywhere—every possible neuron and synapse consumed with him.

“You need me like this—fucking you this deep? Fucking both your pretty holes?” he growls, weaving his hand lower to grab a fistful of your hair, rucking your head up. Throat stretched bare for him, your mewls muddle to cock-drunk cries as he spears you on himself again and again and again.

Yes yes yes fuck harder please please Frankie

You're pleading with him—you’ve been reduced to meager begging— and a chorus of slurs sings your release as you contract around him and cum, the cradle of your hips bucking reflexively.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he seethes, “you’re so good for me baby, Jesus fuck—”

He’s close now—his blissed finish drawing nearer and nearer with each sharp snap of his hips. Frankly, he’s shocked he’s managed to last as long as he has; it’s a small miracle he hadn’t cum the instant he slotted himself inside you with that very first stroke.

“Baby,” he warns, losing his rhythm. You saddle your spine, hollowing out the valley of your back and arch pretty and supple for him— preening under his weight. He moans at that, and through your fucked out haze you have the wherewithal to smirk at him, devious and prideful, a wild look owning your eye.

Frankie has to brace himself on your hips, untangling from your locks to bruise into the pillow of your skin— gripping on for dear fucking life as he plows you. You’re strangling him. You’re strangling the thick of his cock until he’s dizzy with it—until he’s feral and blind and he can’t hold on, can’t keep fighting this fucking monsoon that’s raging in his core.

“Baby, I’m gonna cum. I’m gonna—fuck me, oh shit—” He shouts, spurting inside you thrust for thrust, painting your virgin walls with his seed. It’s too much— after all that, and you’re still too tight— and he’s overstimulated to the point of delirium. Frankie roots himself still, cum dribbling out your stuffed hole while he rides out the high of his orgasm—his vision, his senses, his goddamn soul, slowly oozing back into him. When he slides free from you, he does so with a pained heave, leaving you yawning with his absence.

You feel shredded. Vacant. You’ve been sent to another fucking dimension all together.

Without wasting another second, Frankie claws you up. You’re easy and malleable, bones and muscles too strung out to protest, and he whirls you around to bar you to his chest—crushing your sweaty body to his with bullet marred arms— the same arms that have taken lives, that have spared them, too. The same arms that link around you, delicate and daisy-chained, like you’re the most precious thing he has.

And you are.

You are.

Frankie kisses you breathless, drinking rich from your cup— tongue greedy and reverent as he kneels there at your altar, praying his sins into your mouth.

So gorgeous, he croons, peppering your face—your flushed cheeks, your perspired brow—with his lips as he tells you over and over and over again.

So good for me, pretty baby

Was that okay?

Fuck, you’re a dream

You’re my best girl—you’re my only girl

Was that okay?

God, you’re my whole fucking world

Was that okay? Was I okay?

Are you okay?

You swoon, helpless to the contented sigh that seeps out from you like mist. You’ve gone limp against the breadth of him. He has reduced you to rubber, left wobbling in his grasp, and you’re so damn full—your heart and your body—all of it. You feel unequivocally complete. You feel safe, you feel home.

You are home. Francisco is home.

He’s flattening out the nest of your hair, taming the damage he previously delivered to it, earning from you a sleepy grin into the muggy crook of his neck. And with the last of your waning strength you hold his pieces up to the light—the light you left on in the hall as the night grew dark around you, the one who’s yellow glow your naked bodies bask in now, and you say

I love you

I love this

I love this too

tags:

@krissology @heartsofbeskar @madhattervanessa @andiesturgss @sharkbait77 @tenderwhat @javier-pena @pedros-mustache @frannyzooey @chasingdreamer @djarinsbeskar @thosewickedlovelies @juletheghoul @not-the-droids @filthybookworm @pilothusband @letterfromvienna @keeper0fthestars @greatcircle79 @day-off-inkyoto @mermaidxatxheart @lawfulgranola @heatherbel @quica-quica-quica @stuckonthefiction @janesbrontes

[sending-the-message]

I missed the eclipse... Is anyone out there? by jerseycrawler

I didn’t buy the glasses. I figured it wouldn’t be a big deal, I could look at it without any real repercussions for a few seconds. When everyone was yelling about how you can’t look directly at the sun because of the cosmic rays and such, I shrugged and thought, not me. And the day came for the eclipse. The airwaves were buzzing with energy. The YouTube feeds were primed, showing fields of people waiting for that little cheeseball (the Moon) to pass in front of Sol. I went to Jiu Jitsu and then went home and got into bed. I figured there was an hour before the event, so I hopped into bed and perused the internet, hoping for a new video by Jacksepticeye or Markiplier or one of those internet personalities.

Unfortunately, my mind is a sinister beast, bent on destroying any possibility of happiness in my life and the first website I went to was one of those sex chatrooms. I found a girl bibustyF and I said, “hey can you help me with a rp?” She answered and we started having a detailed chat about some perverse ideas contained within both of our minds. I didn’t care if she was a guy. My mind just wanted to get off. At least it was in a detailed and constructive manner, though jerking off is never constructive for me and has led to the phallic structure protruding from my groin being nothing but a flaccid useless organ, like the appendix, though my appendix probably has more use because of all the meat I eat. So, three hours later, maybe even four, we wrapped up our session, I’d cum a couple of times, and I sat in my sweat and regret. I was defeated and when I saw the time it hurt that much worse.

I ran outside and looked straight up at the sun. It was behind a thin veil of clouds and the obscurity allowed me to stare for a few seconds before the tingling burn began upon my retinas. I saw a light orb passing in front of the sun though. I smiled at the sight of the eclipse and looked up again—burning some more in my eyes, not caring about possible damage, and then looked away. It was pretty much over, unfortunately. I caught the last bit, but I didn’t get to see the pinnacle. I cursed myself and started to head back inside, but before I could, my ears picked up on my surroundings. Do you know what they heard?

Nothing���

Emptiness…

Voidness…

I am not talking about just a quiet summer day—this was as if I were within the deepest void in the blackest vistas of outer space. I stood there, able to hear the sound of my heart beating and even the sounds of my stomach digesting the nuts I’d eaten when I got home. I tried to press my hearing, to accentuate the sense so I could hear further. I closed my eyes and held my head towards the direction of the trees a quarter mile away. Not a bird chirped. Not a cicada hummed. Not a wind blew. The trees didn’t even rustle. And the more I listened, the quieter it got, as if sound was being sucked from the planet I resided on.

I wondered if I had a sudden onset of deafness. Many family members had gone deaf as a result of sickness, so it could've been that. I clapped my hands together and heard the sound they made, dispelling that line of thought.

I walked to the edge of the patio and stared towards the street. The driveways were empty. I’d seen people packing up their cars that morning, but I didn’t think everyone on the block was leaving. There was always that one guy a couple houses down who never left his house, leaving his old coupe in the driveway which probably hadn’t been driven in ten years. I looked up at the sun and I stared and I stared, but there was no retinal damage. I walked onto the grass and I could hear the rustle so prominently of my feet on the verdure. I shivered as I walked, a nothingness surrounding me.

The soundlessness grew though, the further I went from my patio. At a certain point, the sounds of my footsteps were gone. Then went the sounds of my stomach churning. Then the sound of my heartbeat. I felt a pain shoot up the left side of my body and I ran back to my patio, the sound returning to my actions but nothing more. The pain subsided, but not completely. Something remained within my heart and with each bump a dull knock came, like a gas bubble that was expanding and receding.

My cell was in my pocket so I grabbed it. I tried turning it on but there was nothing, just the black emptiness that went together so well with the world I was living in. I went back into the house. Upon my reentry, something was off—actually, everything was off. There wasn’t any AC. No TV, microwave, dishwasher, laundry—nothing would turn on. I called out for my dogs, but there was nothing. That’s when I really got scared.

I’ve had my little Zo for twelve years and Hudson for four. She was a shit-poo and he was a black lab. They always came when I called for them. I called again and again, but nothing I started rummaging through the house. I looked in all of their usual spots, behind the couch, underneath the bed, under the kitchen table. They weren’t anywhere. I frantically yelled, tears streaking down my face when the realization came that they were completely gone when all of the doors and windows in the house were locked and both of them were inside only a minute before I walked out.

I jumped out the front door and ran for my car—it wasn’t there. Standing in the driveway, the nothingness around me, only visions of the neighborhood I called home, though it quickly turned into a place of horrors as the soundless surroundings grew. I screamed and nothing left my lips. I heard nothing from without or within and the pain streaked through me, like a horrible freezing burn. I ran back to my porch and screamed until I could hear myself again. But the pain inside of my heart only grew.

Nothing stirred. Even the trees had stopped as if a snapshot had been taken and posted up where a lively thriving neighborhood had been. The clouds weren’t even moving anymore and when I looked up at the sun, it no longer did anything. I was just a ball of light but the light didn’t do anything when I looked at it. I felt no heat from it. Everything was emptying. Some sort of disposal unit had come to collect everything. I cried on my porch and winced every few minutes from the horrible beating of my heart. I walked inside, feeling the stifling emptiness of my house becoming part of the nothing as well. I grabbed a banana just to know that it was still there and not just a part of this horrific snapshot. I ripped it open and took a bite. No taste to it. It was nothing as well.

I sat down at the table and tried to figure out what was happening. My head was swarmed with thoughts. At least there was something for me to hear, but if I had to listen to them and only them for the rest of my life I’d go crazy. I stood up, drained of tears and woes and went out the back door to the patio.

Upon taking a few steps onto the patio the pain shot up the left side again, this time worse than the last, and I nearly collapsed as I tried to heave myself back inside. I managed to get there, but the pain in my heart was worse, forcing a wince with each heartbeat, and the realization that some sort of boundary was collapsing in on me. The walls were closing in and I was going to be crushed.

I ran upstairs to my bedroom, the computer open and facing away from me. I ran to the bed, the most central point in the house, figuring that it would be the last place to go when things came down around me. I saw that the computer was still on. I stared at the screen, the field with the clouds in the background which looked like it would’ve had a really soothing sound. I tried to imagine the sound of that peaceful place, but no sound came to mind. I couldn’t even hear the musings anymore. Everything was being swallowed into the void.

Then a loud ding sounded, bouncing off the walls of my room and causing me to jump, startled by the unexpected, though relieving, disturbance of the familiar sound. It was the sound of a message being received from the sex chatroom that I frequented. I clicked on the tab on my browser and there was a message waiting for me. It was from bibustyF.

bibustyF: Hey there sweetie!

Me: Hey… something weird is happening.

bibustyF: Is your cock hard again or something? After what we did I’d think you won’t be able to get it up for a month.

Me: No! There’s no sound—no movement—no nothing.

bibustyF: Ooh. R u trying to seduce me or something?

Me: I’m not fucking kidding! Something fucked up is happening to me.

bibustyF: Oh baby! I’m here for you. Tell me what you need.

Me: I need you to call someone. Tell them to get to 110 Hartshorn Rd, West Orange, New Jersey. I need help ASAP!

bibustyF: Honey… there ain’t no one to call.

Me: What?!

bibustyF: You’re it baby. You’re all there is.

Me: Stop fucking around. I’m already scared enough.

bibustyF: Don’t be scared. Soon enough you’ll know. I saved you.

Me: What the fuck are you saying?

bibustyF: tsk tsk! Foul words ain’t gonna get you anywhere. You should be thanking me.

Me: For what?!

bibustyF: Oh… time’s up. Got business to attend to. Next time I’m on maybe we’ll get a little hot together. Let me know.

(bibustyF has disconnected)

I stared at the screen which displayed the chat log of me and whoever this was and I scrolled through it, reading it over and over, trying to understand what the person was talking about. Then I realized, as I was clicking and scrolling, there was no sound emanating from the computer. I couldn’t even feel the keys underneath my fingers. I couldn’t feel the cushion of the bed beneath me. I pressed my hands together and felt them. I screamed out for help and the sound left my lips but was swallowed by the void around me.

I did the only think I knew to do. I opened up another tab, hoping against hope that some semblance of the internet was still working. I needed to get word out somehow and the request went through. The front page of reddit came up and my heart leapt, shooting a pain through me like no other, blinding me with white light for a moment, relieving me of the only sense that seemed to be working correctly. Now I’m here, trying to get word out about what’s happening to me. This pain is climbing through my body with the blood that pumps from my heart. I’m infected with something and I need help. I don’t know how long I have and I don’t even know if there’s anyone else out there to see this—but if there is, please send some help. I can feel this crippling rot moving within me, even though as I press my hands together right now, I can no longer feel my palms or the sweat that’s probably gathering on my forehead, or the tears that are clouding my vision, or the hair that dons my head. I think I regret missing this eclipse.

[olaluwe]

  Nudge by doubts fears carefree attitudes,

  Instead of being led by their dream boldly,

With few exemptions,

  Many of my contemporaries and I

  were ruined and nearly ruined by letting themselves

  be drown indecisive in the sweeping showers

  of their splashy dawn,

energeticyoungsters fresh out of school clueless

  fleetfooting themselves through countywide

  streets highways &alleyways too

  looking instead for ridiculous quick fix menial

  jobs sites when they should have charted 

  a career course,

who caught napping supine on the faeces

  of unprofitable endeavours sheer drudgery

  &were flapped silly by ugly humongous flies of 

  absolute ridicule undone inevitably crashed-in,

who sleepy eyed early birds daily converge

  on Tarmacs U-turn or Fagba for hopeful pick

  by kind familiar unfamiliar operators, 

  buoyant industrialists or stayed back 

  with spin of Shovels sprouting 

  fields of concrete bricks,

and daily went home with Hell

  trapped in their bodies and famished and insatiate

  with heavy ploughman meals and thirsty for 

  cold water buckets all day,

who funnelled into the streets from Lagos to 

  Abeokuta to Ibadan to Oshogbo to Akure 

  violently protesting the voided 1993 presidential election 

  Watershed with mournful elegies, with songs daring 

  soldiers to shoot they’re a multitude, with

  borne-fires, with stone projectiles, with Molotov 

  cocktail through twisted regiments of tyres& 

  woods &irons barricades until the mob wear itself 

  out or were put down namely by whip

  of the grape shots apologies to Napoleon de 

  Bonaparte,  

who rightly thought the Feds is a scam 

  doing nothing to change their condition and

  did nothing themselves,

who repeatedly fatally faltered

  trying to walk before crawling,

 who idle talk from bed to bathroom to streets

  to peeps bunks of big money hit 

  yet despised the day of little beginning,

who went away pregnant with disobedience 

  defying the grandfather summon advisories

  caution suffering cathartic miscarriage luckily

  in the lonesome night of repentant self flagellation

  or returned prodigal with gaunt babies of 

  lamentations fed on humble pie,

who sweetened a gifted lady first time in Calabar

  who was a gifted lady from the Carpenter

  without protective socks on his foreskin

  on a scorching sunny afternoon tabooed

  in the sloppy ground yonder wooden quarters

  on matted floor with peeled painful kneecaps

  to the bargain &icing on the trauma-cake Gonorrhoea

  from the mournful sober strumpet intimated 

  who perfectly mimic the shade of a sweet homely

  girl met a striking deserted Hospital

  on Sunday& later found succour 

  at a street corner Apothecary with the lady 

  in tow leaving her still without a broken heart,

who was given a weighted round of applause

  in real life scenario at Crusher prompted by the 

  Red neck Director visiting for convincing moving 

  speech tagged Cicero the future assembly man 

  without any business whatsoever being a 

  ploughman wasting away,

who lone it through Kubwa& had the 

  longest night of his life barred from re-entering

  the estate PHS by the Gorgon faced officious guard

  accused of disrespecting hisses unfairly pleaded

  to no avail wounding up with insomnia in a wooden 

  church erect on the cliff edge feted on 

  by an army of hungry mosquitoes 

  with ruthless abandon,

who hungry out-of-pocket threw needless

  tantrums with a BLLB to hell with a project

  long delayed angrily returned to no tranquillity 

  base Lagos cramped into overloaded 1414bus on

  a night trip with a role of mat strapped under 

  his armpit for goody bag,

who rude to the stocky supervising major 

  on site& was rewarded instantaneous with 

  thunderous slaps by his aide-de-camp corporal

  with accompanying blurry starry vision,

who picked on by the grumpy aggressive 

  sergeant demoted & felled tripped with a deep cut 

  to his pelvic pursued & was given a clean suture

  &analgesic at the MRS,

who was evicted now from a different site 

  by same stocky major for combativeness irreconcilable

  disputes &picketing &symbolic poison 

  to site harmony,

and left high spirited with the older loquacious

  Edo man now lost unforgotten 

  in the maddening Lagos crowd,

who were welcome ecstatic by the old comrades

  at abattoir where LSDPC was piloting a new

  set of project,

who bereaved grieving hollow eyed 

  starting their teary sojourn from afar largely ignored,

Who idle descended on News stand from 

  from dawn to dusk &went home without any 

  significant takeaway but heated disagreeable 

  cacophonies of intellectual supremacists tribalise

  voices &dusty eyed severe figure heads 

  rowdy in turn at the forum of the street,

who were indefatigable fanatic supporters

  either queueing behind remember the Star crooner

  who sang ‘whirling hipped ladies have usurped the 

  microphone from his hand’ or the bare-chested 

  street fighter pugilist Moon crooner in a never ending 

  superiority tussle bearing on their bloody heads

  burdensome migraine of the duo 

  with soaring away success paying lip service to theirs,

who were chronic bachelors repeatedly stabbed

  in the heart by loveless ravishing angels

  roaring at dawn in their hunt 

  of still waters greener pastures,

who jumped at every chanced discussion 

  on who the best player in the world is 

  or the richest- Messi or Ronaldo,

  an over flogged debate, 

who took to crime pickpocket in crowded bus stops

  pedestrian walks on rickety Molues plying shallow

  highway routes one-chance in smaller buses Varagons

  ripping their victims off valuables 

  pushed off on motion to their bruises deaths

  crushed by the unfortunate hit and run drivers,

who metamorphosis into superhighway bank vault 

  dynamite armed robbers to protest poverty ravaging

  the land perceived injustices to their regions 

  lopsided federalism non implementation of fiscal 

  federalism hopelessly,

a mass of rueful sobbing scapegoats 

  held by the wrists in lawman Hulux trucks 

  driven through the elephant gate

  behind wailing walls of lion building remand jails 

  &were never seen again,

who were disagreeable dagger-drawn 

  in crowded football Viewing centre at Bori camp 

  and escaped through the low walls 

  into the creeks without a trace 

  leaving somebody dripping in stanch,

who anticipatory painted a live cow in blue 

  on mainland Lagos to be butchered 

  for barbecue cocktail because Chelsea 

  they instinctively violently believe will win 

  for the first time UEFA champions 

  league &they  did &hell was let loose 

  with scores dead benighted by marijuana haze 

  alcoholic binge from reckless joyride 

  honking motorcade through shallow streets 

  dark under perpetual swathe 

  of power outage,

who went through universities with morale 

  high flown struggled not for lack of intellectual 

  abilities but material comfort pull it off

  below the  class and still celebrated,

who mandatory were posted to the North east

  the hot bed of murderous insurrectionists 

  Boko haram hole up in the Sambisa forest

  picked a pocketful of pellets on the streets 

  riding on the Bicycle and still had 

  a resourceful Atipo,    

who gambled away their tuition fees 

  gathered all night in empty apartment 

  of a Canadian trained aeronautic engineer 

  deportee and so dropped out of college 

  wondering where next to go but went nowhere 

  pass self destruct crack smoking

  street urchins, 

who were bosom friends and loyal comrades

  hustling in tattered clothes hooded disguised 

  undisguised eating bread the scalp of their 

  unshaven heads unknown,

who were the secret heroes and super heroes 

   of this poem now lost permanently non-permanently

   from Denis to Sam to Roger in specs not the 

   real name- sorrow to the memory of a gallant 

   hustler lost in his sleep lording it over 

   work and academics up in the centre of unity,

let heavens calm its impatient loom for our total

  homely recall for we are all speedily tracking  towards 

  our fated sunsets bound to the threesome old 

  mileage of Time divided,

who groaned in repeated interface 

  with the visionary Celestian shepherds 

  who were visionary sexy eyed Celestian prophetesses 

  trying to unravel the mystery behind 

  their multitude of woes,

 and went through bath rituals ringed 

  by three elders screaming Jah jah jah 

  with seven candle sticks sponge scent oil eggs coconut

  to be exhausted in running water

  or Blackstone stationary

  in the churchyard mercy land,

who slept for ten years on Boxguitars 

  Boxguitars Boxguitars with total indifference 

  woke up one morning with drear sting 

  of penitential paroxysm its scandalous to sojourn 

  in a music house without some love&

  a baggage of note,

presented himself before the familiar bedfellow 

  instructor maestro seated at the piano

  among a sea of nodding heads with a deluge 

  of request imperative ambitious learner&

  was given a crash lesson in 

  jazz fantasia,

but despair his maturation is slow 

  gave up midway and took a 

  night bus to Calabar to feed on his old vomit,

who was twice rendered homeless squatting 

  with childhood friends practically wooed in 

  & still keep their contacts and no ill feelings,

who after thought tried enlisting in the great army 

  but forgotten to doctor their particulars

  to reflect the new reality,

who peeped through keyhole night after night 

  for months on the master trembling pleading 

  for more in coitus with the sweet first snatch of girlfriend 

  I think from childhood and tiptoed to the furniture 

  wishing they could swap roles,

 who in stunning dramatic fashion repeatedly lose

  their caps instead to deathly probes 

  that should have taken them to the cleaner,

who hurriedly taxied home from the peninsula

  desperately sick dismounted at a crossroad

  sidewalk befuddled crossed the highway

  into gas station Sweet sensation round table 

  with a cold bottle of orange crush,

standing on their heels glad to inform all agonizing 

  well-wishers that the condition of the labouring mountains 

  is expectedly painful but stable and promises to 

  usher in the Visionary babies new dawns,

for fireplace intended for the vulture will only 

  end up consuming other birds so unfortunate!

     Note : 

BLLB stands for acronym of a Yoruba phrase- Bose Lo, 

   Lo Sebo; meaning to come home empty handed after a period of sojourn.

Atipo is a Yoruba word which generically qualifies anybody or the act of serving

  one’s fatherland especially after university education.     

          ....  For Denis Ojadeni

[olaluwe]

  Nudge by doubts fears carefree attitudes,

  Instead of being led by their dream boldly,

With few exemptions,

  Many of my contemporaries and I

  were ruined and nearly ruined by letting themselves

  be drown indecisive in the sweeping showers

  of their splashy dawn,

energeticyoungsters fresh out of school clueless

  fleetfooting themselves through countywide

  streets highways &alleyways too

  looking instead for ridiculous quick fix menial

  jobs sites when they should have charted 

  a career course,

who caught napping supine on the faeces

  of unprofitable endeavours sheer drudgery

  &were flapped silly by ugly humongous flies of 

  absolute ridicule undone inevitably crashed-in,

who sleepy eyed early birds daily converge

  on Tarmacs U-turn or Fagba for hopeful pick

  by kind familiar unfamiliar operators, 

  buoyant industrialists or stayed back 

  with spin of Shovels sprouting 

  fields of concrete bricks,

and daily went home with Hell

  trapped in their bodies and famished and insatiate

  with heavy ploughman meals and thirsty for 

  cold water buckets all day,

who funnelled into the streets from Lagos to 

  Abeokuta to Ibadan to Oshogbo to Akure 

  violently protesting the voided 1993 presidential election 

  Watershed with mournful elegies, with songs daring 

  soldiers to shoot they’re a multitude, with

  borne-fires, with stone projectiles, with Molotov 

  cocktail through twisted regiments of tyres& 

  woods &irons barricades until the mob wear itself 

  out or were put down namely by whip

  of the grape shots apologies to Napoleon de 

  Bonaparte,  

who rightly thought the Feds is a scam 

  doing nothing to change their condition and

  did nothing themselves,

who repeatedly fatally faltered

  trying to walk before crawling,

 who idle talk from bed to bathroom to streets

  to peeps bunks of big money hit 

  yet despised the day of little beginning,

who went away pregnant with disobedience 

  defying the grandfather summon advisories

  caution suffering cathartic miscarriage luckily

  in the lonesome night of repentant self flagellation

  or returned prodigal with gaunt babies of 

  lamentations fed on humble pie,

who sweetened a gifted lady first time in Calabar

  who was a gifted lady from the Carpenter

  without protective socks on his foreskin

  on a scorching sunny afternoon tabooed

  in the sloppy ground yonder wooden quarters

  on matted floor with peeled painful kneecaps

  to the bargain &icing on the trauma-cake Gonorrhoea

  from the mournful sober strumpet intimated 

  who perfectly mimic the shade of a sweet homely

  girl met a striking deserted Hospital

  on Sunday& later found succour 

  at a street corner Apothecary with the lady 

  in tow leaving her still without a broken heart,

who was given a weighted round of applause

  in real life scenario at Crusher prompted by the 

  Red neck Director visiting for convincing moving 

  speech tagged Cicero the future assembly man 

  without any business whatsoever being a 

  ploughman wasting away,

who lone it through Kubwa& had the 

  longest night of his life barred from re-entering

  the estate PHS by the Gorgon faced officious guard

  accused of disrespecting hisses unfairly pleaded

  to no avail wounding up with insomnia in a wooden 

  church erect on the cliff edge feted on 

  by an army of hungry mosquitoes 

  with ruthless abandon,

who hungry out-of-pocket threw needless

  tantrums with a BLLB to hell with a project

  long delayed angrily returned to no tranquillity 

  base Lagos cramped into overloaded 1414bus on

  a night trip with a role of mat strapped under 

  his armpit for goody bag,

who rude to the stocky supervising major 

  on site& was rewarded instantaneous with 

  thunderous slaps by his aide-de-camp corporal

  with accompanying blurry starry vision,

who picked on by the grumpy aggressive 

  sergeant demoted & felled tripped with a deep cut 

  to his pelvic pursued & was given a clean suture

  &analgesic at the MRS,

who was evicted now from a different site 

  by same stocky major for combativeness irreconcilable

  disputes &picketing &symbolic poison 

  to site harmony,

and left high spirited with the older loquacious

  Edo man now lost unforgotten 

  in the maddening Lagos crowd,

who were welcome ecstatic by the old comrades

  at abattoir where LSDPC was piloting a new

  set of project,

who bereaved grieving hollow eyed 

  starting their teary sojourn from afar largely ignored,

Who idle descended on News stand from 

  from dawn to dusk &went home without any 

  significant takeaway but heated disagreeable 

  cacophonies of intellectual supremacists tribalise

  voices &dusty eyed severe figure heads 

  rowdy in turn at the forum of the street,

who were indefatigable fanatic supporters

  either queueing behind remember the Star crooner

  who sang ‘whirling hipped ladies have usurped the 

  microphone from his hand’ or the bare-chested 

  street fighter pugilist Moon crooner in a never ending 

  superiority tussle bearing on their bloody heads

  burdensome migraine of the duo 

  with soaring away success paying lip service to theirs,

who were chronic bachelors repeatedly stabbed

  in the heart by loveless ravishing angels

  roaring at dawn in their hunt 

  of still waters greener pastures,

who jumped at every chanced discussion 

  on who the best player in the world is 

  or the richest- Messi or Ronaldo,

  an over flogged debate, 

who took to crime pickpocket in crowded bus stops

  pedestrian walks on rickety Molues plying shallow

  highway routes one-chance in smaller buses Varagons

  ripping their victims off valuables 

  pushed off on motion to their bruises deaths

  crushed by the unfortunate hit and run drivers,

who metamorphosis into superhighway bank vault 

  dynamite armed robbers to protest poverty ravaging

  the land perceived injustices to their regions 

  lopsided federalism non implementation of fiscal 

  federalism hopelessly,

a mass of rueful sobbing scapegoats 

  held by the wrists in lawman Hulux trucks 

  driven through the elephant gate

  behind wailing walls of lion building remand jails 

  &were never seen again,

who were disagreeable dagger-drawn 

  in crowded football Viewing centre at Bori camp 

  and escaped through the low walls 

  into the creeks without a trace 

  leaving somebody dripping in stanch,

who anticipatory painted a live cow in blue 

  on mainland Lagos to be butchered 

  for barbecue cocktail because Chelsea 

  they instinctively violently believe will win 

  for the first time UEFA champions 

  league &they  did &hell was let loose 

  with scores dead benighted by marijuana haze 

  alcoholic binge from reckless joyride 

  honking motorcade through shallow streets 

  dark under perpetual swathe 

  of power outage,

who went through universities with morale 

  high flown struggled not for lack of intellectual 

  abilities but material comfort pull it off

  below the  class and still celebrated,

who mandatory were posted to the North east

  the hot bed of murderous insurrectionists 

  Boko haram hole up in the Sambisa forest

  picked a pocketful of pellets on the streets 

  riding on the Bicycle and still had 

  a resourceful Atipo,    

who gambled away their tuition fees 

  gathered all night in empty apartment 

  of a Canadian trained aeronautic engineer 

  deportee and so dropped out of college 

  wondering where next to go but went nowhere 

  pass self destruct crack smoking

  street urchins, 

who were bosom friends and loyal comrades

  hustling in tattered clothes hooded disguised 

  undisguised eating bread the scalp of their 

  unshaven heads unknown,

who were the secret heroes and super heroes 

   of this poem now lost permanently non-permanently

   from Denis to Sam to Roger in specs not the 

   real name- sorrow to the memory of a gallant 

   hustler lost in his sleep lording it over 

   work and academics up in the centre of unity,

let heavens calm its impatient loom for our total

  homely recall for we are all speedily tracking  towards 

  our fated sunsets bound to the threesome old 

  mileage of Time divided,

who groaned in repeated interface 

  with the visionary Celestian shepherds 

  who were visionary sexy eyed Celestian prophetesses 

  trying to unravel the mystery behind 

  their multitude of woes,

 and went through bath rituals ringed 

  by three elders screaming Jah jah jah 

  with seven candle sticks sponge scent oil eggs coconut

  to be exhausted in running water

  or Blackstone stationary

  in the churchyard mercy land,

who slept for ten years on Boxguitars 

  Boxguitars Boxguitars with total indifference 

  woke up one morning with drear sting 

  of penitential paroxysm its scandalous to sojourn 

  in a music house without some love&

  a baggage of note,

presented himself before the familiar bedfellow 

  instructor maestro seated at the piano

  among a sea of nodding heads with a deluge 

  of request imperative ambitious learner&

  was given a crash lesson in 

  jazz fantasia,

but despair his maturation is slow 

  gave up midway and took a 

  night bus to Calabar to feed on his old vomit,

who was twice rendered homeless squatting 

  with childhood friends practically wooed in 

  & still keep their contacts and no ill feelings,

who after thought tried enlisting in the great army 

  but forgotten to doctor their particulars

  to reflect the new reality,

who peeped through keyhole night after night 

  for months on the master trembling pleading 

  for more in coitus with the sweet first snatch of girlfriend 

  I think from childhood and tiptoed to the furniture 

  wishing they could swap roles,

 who in stunning dramatic fashion repeatedly lose

  their caps instead to deathly probes 

  that should have taken them to the cleaner,

who hurriedly taxied home from the peninsula

  desperately sick dismounted at a crossroad

  sidewalk befuddled crossed the highway

  into gas station Sweet sensation round table 

  with a cold bottle of orange crush,

standing on their heels glad to inform all agonizing 

  well-wishers that the condition of the labouring mountains 

  is expectedly painful but stable and promises to 

  usher in the Visionary babies new dawns,

for fireplace intended for the vulture will only 

  end up consuming other birds so unfortunate!

     Note : 

BLLB stands for acronym of a Yoruba phrase- Bose Lo, 

   Lo Sebo; meaning to come home empty handed after a period of sojourn.

Atipo is a Yoruba word which generically qualifies anybody or the act of serving

  one’s fatherland especially after university education.     

          ....  For Denis Ojadeni

[olaluwe]

  Nudge by doubts fears carefree attitudes,

  Instead of being led by their dream boldly,

With few exemptions,

  Many of my contemporaries and I

  were ruined and nearly ruined by letting themselves

  be drown indecisive in the sweeping showers

  of their splashy dawn,

energeticyoungsters fresh out of school clueless

  fleetfooting themselves through countywide

  streets highways &alleyways too

  looking instead for ridiculous quick fix menial

  jobs sites when they should have charted 

  a career course,

who caught napping supine on the faeces

  of unprofitable endeavours sheer drudgery

  &were flapped silly by ugly humongous flies of 

  absolute ridicule undone inevitably crashed-in,

who sleepy eyed early birds daily converge

  on Tarmacs U-turn or Fagba for hopeful pick

  by kind familiar unfamiliar operators, 

  buoyant industrialists or stayed back 

  with spin of Shovels sprouting 

  fields of concrete bricks,

and daily went home with Hell

  trapped in their bodies and famished and insatiate

  with heavy ploughman meals and thirsty for 

  cold water buckets all day,

who funnelled into the streets from Lagos to 

  Abeokuta to Ibadan to Oshogbo to Akure 

  violently protesting the voided 1993 presidential election 

  Watershed with mournful elegies, with songs daring 

  soldiers to shoot they’re a multitude, with

  borne-fires, with stone projectiles, with Molotov 

  cocktail through twisted regiments of tyres& 

  woods &irons barricades until the mob wear itself 

  out or were put down namely by whip

  of the grape shots apologies to Napoleon de 

  Bonaparte,  

who rightly thought the Feds is a scam 

  doing nothing to change their condition and

  did nothing themselves,

who repeatedly fatally faltered

  trying to walk before crawling,

 who idle talk from bed to bathroom to streets

  to peeps bunks of big money hit 

  yet despised the day of little beginning,

who went away pregnant with disobedience 

  defying the grandfather summon advisories

  caution suffering cathartic miscarriage luckily

  in the lonesome night of repentant self flagellation

  or returned prodigal with gaunt babies of 

  lamentations fed on humble pie,

who sweetened a gifted lady first time in Calabar

  who was a gifted lady from the Carpenter

  without protective socks on his foreskin

  on a scorching sunny afternoon tabooed

  in the sloppy ground yonder wooden quarters

  on matted floor with peeled painful kneecaps

  to the bargain &icing on the trauma-cake Gonorrhoea

  from the mournful sober strumpet intimated 

  who perfectly mimic the shade of a sweet homely

  girl met a striking deserted Hospital

  on Sunday& later found succour 

  at a street corner Apothecary with the lady 

  in tow leaving her still without a broken heart,

who was given a weighted round of applause

  in real life scenario at Crusher prompted by the 

  Red neck Director visiting for convincing moving 

  speech tagged Cicero the future assembly man 

  without any business whatsoever being a 

  ploughman wasting away,

who lone it through Kubwa& had the 

  longest night of his life barred from re-entering

  the estate PHS by the Gorgon faced officious guard

  accused of disrespecting hisses unfairly pleaded

  to no avail wounding up with insomnia in a wooden 

  church erect on the cliff edge feted on 

  by an army of hungry mosquitoes 

  with ruthless abandon,

who hungry out-of-pocket threw needless

  tantrums with a BLLB to hell with a project

  long delayed angrily returned to no tranquillity 

  base Lagos cramped into overloaded 1414bus on

  a night trip with a role of mat strapped under 

  his armpit for goody bag,

who rude to the stocky supervising major 

  on site& was rewarded instantaneous with 

  thunderous slaps by his aide-de-camp corporal

  with accompanying blurry starry vision,

who picked on by the grumpy aggressive 

  sergeant demoted & felled tripped with a deep cut 

  to his pelvic pursued & was given a clean suture

  &analgesic at the MRS,

who was evicted now from a different site 

  by same stocky major for combativeness irreconcilable

  disputes &picketing &symbolic poison 

  to site harmony,

and left high spirited with the older loquacious

  Edo man now lost unforgotten 

  in the maddening Lagos crowd,

who were welcome ecstatic by the old comrades

  at abattoir where LSDPC was piloting a new

  set of project,

who bereaved grieving hollow eyed 

  starting their teary sojourn from afar largely ignored,

Who idle descended on News stand from 

  from dawn to dusk &went home without any 

  significant takeaway but heated disagreeable 

  cacophonies of intellectual supremacists tribalise

  voices &dusty eyed severe figure heads 

  rowdy in turn at the forum of the street,

who were indefatigable fanatic supporters

  either queueing behind remember the Star crooner

  who sang ‘whirling hipped ladies have usurped the 

  microphone from his hand’ or the bare-chested 

  street fighter pugilist Moon crooner in a never ending 

  superiority tussle bearing on their bloody heads

  burdensome migraine of the duo 

  with soaring away success paying lip service to theirs,

who were chronic bachelors repeatedly stabbed

  in the heart by loveless ravishing angels

  roaring at dawn in their hunt 

  of still waters greener pastures,

who jumped at every chanced discussion 

  on who the best player in the world is 

  or the richest- Messi or Ronaldo,

  an over flogged debate, 

who took to crime pickpocket in crowded bus stops

  pedestrian walks on rickety Molues plying shallow

  highway routes one-chance in smaller buses Varagons

  ripping their victims off valuables 

  pushed off on motion to their bruises deaths

  crushed by the unfortunate hit and run drivers,

who metamorphosis into superhighway bank vault 

  dynamite armed robbers to protest poverty ravaging

  the land perceived injustices to their regions 

  lopsided federalism non implementation of fiscal 

  federalism hopelessly,

a mass of rueful sobbing scapegoats 

  held by the wrists in lawman Hulux trucks 

  driven through the elephant gate

  behind wailing walls of lion building remand jails 

  &were never seen again,

who were disagreeable dagger-drawn 

  in crowded football Viewing centre at Bori camp 

  and escaped through the low walls 

  into the creeks without a trace 

  leaving somebody dripping in stanch,

who anticipatory painted a live cow in blue 

  on mainland Lagos to be butchered 

  for barbecue cocktail because Chelsea 

  they instinctively violently believe will win 

  for the first time UEFA champions 

  league &they  did &hell was let loose 

  with scores dead benighted by marijuana haze 

  alcoholic binge from reckless joyride 

  honking motorcade through shallow streets 

  dark under perpetual swathe 

  of power outage,

who went through universities with morale 

  high flown struggled not for lack of intellectual 

  abilities but material comfort pull it off

  below the  class and still celebrated,

who mandatory were posted to the North east

  the hot bed of murderous insurrectionists 

  Boko haram hole up in the Sambisa forest

  picked a pocketful of pellets on the streets 

  riding on the Bicycle and still had 

  a resourceful Atipo,    

who gambled away their tuition fees 

  gathered all night in empty apartment 

  of a Canadian trained aeronautic engineer 

  deportee and so dropped out of college 

  wondering where next to go but went nowhere 

  pass self destruct crack smoking

  street urchins, 

who were bosom friends and loyal comrades

  hustling in tattered clothes hooded disguised 

  undisguised eating bread the scalp of their 

  unshaven heads unknown,

who were the secret heroes and super heroes 

   of this poem now lost permanently non-permanently

   from Denis to Sam to Roger in specs not the 

   real name- sorrow to the memory of a gallant 

   hustler lost in his sleep lording it over 

   work and academics up in the centre of unity,

let heavens calm its impatient loom for our total

  homely recall for we are all speedily tracking  towards 

  our fated sunsets bound to the threesome old 

  mileage of Time divided,

who groaned in repeated interface 

  with the visionary Celestian shepherds 

  who were visionary sexy eyed Celestian prophetesses 

  trying to unravel the mystery behind 

  their multitude of woes,

 and went through bath rituals ringed 

  by three elders screaming Jah jah jah 

  with seven candle sticks sponge scent oil eggs coconut

  to be exhausted in running water

  or Blackstone stationary

  in the churchyard mercy land,

who slept for ten years on Boxguitars 

  Boxguitars Boxguitars with total indifference 

  woke up one morning with drear sting 

  of penitential paroxysm its scandalous to sojourn 

  in a music house without some love&

  a baggage of note,

presented himself before the familiar bedfellow 

  instructor maestro seated at the piano

  among a sea of nodding heads with a deluge 

  of request imperative ambitious learner&

  was given a crash lesson in 

  jazz fantasia,

but despair his maturation is slow 

  gave up midway and took a 

  night bus to Calabar to feed on his old vomit,

who was twice rendered homeless squatting 

  with childhood friends practically wooed in 

  & still keep their contacts and no ill feelings,

who after thought tried enlisting in the great army 

  but forgotten to doctor their particulars

  to reflect the new reality,

who peeped through keyhole night after night 

  for months on the master trembling pleading 

  for more in coitus with the sweet first snatch of girlfriend 

  I think from childhood and tiptoed to the furniture 

  wishing they could swap roles,

 who in stunning dramatic fashion repeatedly lose

  their caps instead to deathly probes 

  that should have taken them to the cleaner,

who hurriedly taxied home from the peninsula

  desperately sick dismounted at a crossroad

  sidewalk befuddled crossed the highway

  into gas station Sweet sensation round table 

  with a cold bottle of orange crush,

standing on their heels glad to inform all agonizing 

  well-wishers that the condition of the labouring mountains 

  is expectedly painful but stable and promises to 

  usher in the Visionary babies new dawns,

for fireplace intended for the vulture will only 

  end up consuming other birds so unfortunate!

     Note : 

BLLB stands for acronym of a Yoruba phrase- Bose Lo, 

   Lo Sebo; meaning to come home empty handed after a period of sojourn.

Atipo is a Yoruba word which generically qualifies anybody or the act of serving

  one’s fatherland especially after university education.     

          ....  For Denis Ojadeni

[olaluwe]

  Nudge by doubts fears carefree attitudes,

  Instead of being led by their dream boldly,

With few exemptions,

  Many of my contemporaries and I

  were ruined and nearly ruined by letting themselves

  be drown indecisive in the sweeping showers

  of their splashy dawn,

energeticyoungsters fresh out of school clueless

  fleetfooting themselves through countywide

  streets highways &alleyways too

  looking instead for ridiculous quick fix menial

  jobs sites when they should have charted 

  a career course,

who caught napping supine on the faeces

  of unprofitable endeavours sheer drudgery

  &were flapped silly by ugly humongous flies of 

  absolute ridicule undone inevitably crashed-in,

who sleepy eyed early birds daily converge

  on Tarmacs U-turn or Fagba for hopeful pick

  by kind familiar unfamiliar operators, 

  buoyant industrialists or stayed back 

  with spin of Shovels sprouting 

  fields of concrete bricks,

and daily went home with Hell

  trapped in their bodies and famished and insatiate

  with heavy ploughman meals and thirsty for 

  cold water buckets all day,

who funnelled into the streets from Lagos to 

  Abeokuta to Ibadan to Oshogbo to Akure 

  violently protesting the voided 1993 presidential election 

  Watershed with mournful elegies, with songs daring 

  soldiers to shoot they’re a multitude, with

  borne-fires, with stone projectiles, with Molotov 

  cocktail through twisted regiments of tyres& 

  woods &irons barricades until the mob wear itself 

  out or were put down namely by whip

  of the grape shots apologies to Napoleon de 

  Bonaparte,  

who rightly thought the Feds is a scam 

  doing nothing to change their condition and

  did nothing themselves,

who repeatedly fatally faltered

  trying to walk before crawling,

 who idle talk from bed to bathroom to streets

  to peeps bunks of big money hit 

  yet despised the day of little beginning,

who went away pregnant with disobedience 

  defying the grandfather summon advisories

  caution suffering cathartic miscarriage luckily

  in the lonesome night of repentant self flagellation

  or returned prodigal with gaunt babies of 

  lamentations fed on humble pie,

who sweetened a gifted lady first time in Calabar

  who was a gifted lady from the Carpenter

  without protective socks on his foreskin

  on a scorching sunny afternoon tabooed

  in the sloppy ground yonder wooden quarters

  on matted floor with peeled painful kneecaps

  to the bargain &icing on the trauma-cake Gonorrhoea

  from the mournful sober strumpet intimated 

  who perfectly mimic the shade of a sweet homely

  girl met a striking deserted Hospital

  on Sunday& later found succour 

  at a street corner Apothecary with the lady 

  in tow leaving her still without a broken heart,

who was given a weighted round of applause

  in real life scenario at Crusher prompted by the 

  Red neck Director visiting for convincing moving 

  speech tagged Cicero the future assembly man 

  without any business whatsoever being a 

  ploughman wasting away,

who lone it through Kubwa& had the 

  longest night of his life barred from re-entering

  the estate PHS by the Gorgon faced officious guard

  accused of disrespecting hisses unfairly pleaded

  to no avail wounding up with insomnia in a wooden 

  church erect on the cliff edge feted on 

  by an army of hungry mosquitoes 

  with ruthless abandon,

who hungry out-of-pocket threw needless

  tantrums with a BLLB to hell with a project

  long delayed angrily returned to no tranquillity 

  base Lagos cramped into overloaded 1414bus on

  a night trip with a role of mat strapped under 

  his armpit for goody bag,

who rude to the stocky supervising major 

  on site& was rewarded instantaneous with 

  thunderous slaps by his aide-de-camp corporal

  with accompanying blurry starry vision,

who picked on by the grumpy aggressive 

  sergeant demoted & felled tripped with a deep cut 

  to his pelvic pursued & was given a clean suture

  &analgesic at the MRS,

who was evicted now from a different site 

  by same stocky major for combativeness irreconcilable

  disputes &picketing &symbolic poison 

  to site harmony,

and left high spirited with the older loquacious

  Edo man now lost unforgotten 

  in the maddening Lagos crowd,

who were welcome ecstatic by the old comrades

  at abattoir where LSDPC was piloting a new

  set of project,

who bereaved grieving hollow eyed 

  starting their teary sojourn from afar largely ignored,

Who idle descended on News stand from 

  from dawn to dusk &went home without any 

  significant takeaway but heated disagreeable 

  cacophonies of intellectual supremacists tribalise

  voices &dusty eyed severe figure heads 

  rowdy in turn at the forum of the street,

who were indefatigable fanatic supporters

  either queueing behind remember the Star crooner

  who sang ‘whirling hipped ladies have usurped the 

  microphone from his hand’ or the bare-chested 

  street fighter pugilist Moon crooner in a never ending 

  superiority tussle bearing on their bloody heads

  burdensome migraine of the duo 

  with soaring away success paying lip service to theirs,

who were chronic bachelors repeatedly stabbed

  in the heart by loveless ravishing angels

  roaring at dawn in their hunt 

  of still waters greener pastures,

who jumped at every chanced discussion 

  on who the best player in the world is 

  or the richest- Messi or Ronaldo,

  an over flogged debate, 

who took to crime pickpocket in crowded bus stops

  pedestrian walks on rickety Molues plying shallow

  highway routes one-chance in smaller buses Varagons

  ripping their victims off valuables 

  pushed off on motion to their bruises deaths

  crushed by the unfortunate hit and run drivers,

who metamorphosis into superhighway bank vault 

  dynamite armed robbers to protest poverty ravaging

  the land perceived injustices to their regions 

  lopsided federalism non implementation of fiscal 

  federalism hopelessly,

a mass of rueful sobbing scapegoats 

  held by the wrists in lawman Hulux trucks 

  driven through the elephant gate

  behind wailing walls of lion building remand jails 

  &were never seen again,

who were disagreeable dagger-drawn 

  in crowded football Viewing centre at Bori camp 

  and escaped through the low walls 

  into the creeks without a trace 

  leaving somebody dripping in stanch,

who anticipatory painted a live cow in blue 

  on mainland Lagos to be butchered 

  for barbecue cocktail because Chelsea 

  they instinctively violently believe will win 

  for the first time UEFA champions 

  league &they  did &hell was let loose 

  with scores dead benighted by marijuana haze 

  alcoholic binge from reckless joyride 

  honking motorcade through shallow streets 

  dark under perpetual swathe 

  of power outage,

who went through universities with morale 

  high flown struggled not for lack of intellectual 

  abilities but material comfort pull it off

  below the  class and still celebrated,

who mandatory were posted to the North east

  the hot bed of murderous insurrectionists 

  Boko haram hole up in the Sambisa forest

  picked a pocketful of pellets on the streets 

  riding on the Bicycle and still had 

  a resourceful Atipo,    

who gambled away their tuition fees 

  gathered all night in empty apartment 

  of a Canadian trained aeronautic engineer 

  deportee and so dropped out of college 

  wondering where next to go but went nowhere 

  pass self destruct crack smoking

  street urchins, 

who were bosom friends and loyal comrades

  hustling in tattered clothes hooded disguised 

  undisguised eating bread the scalp of their 

  unshaven heads unknown,

who were the secret heroes and super heroes 

   of this poem now lost permanently non-permanently

   from Denis to Sam to Roger in specs not the 

   real name- sorrow to the memory of a gallant 

   hustler lost in his sleep lording it over 

   work and academics up in the centre of unity,

let heavens calm its impatient loom for our total

  homely recall for we are all speedily tracking  towards 

  our fated sunsets bound to the threesome old 

  mileage of Time divided,

who groaned in repeated interface 

  with the visionary Celestian shepherds 

  who were visionary sexy eyed Celestian prophetesses 

  trying to unravel the mystery behind 

  their multitude of woes,

 and went through bath rituals ringed 

  by three elders screaming Jah jah jah 

  with seven candle sticks sponge scent oil eggs coconut

  to be exhausted in running water

  or Blackstone stationary

  in the churchyard mercy land,

who slept for ten years on Boxguitars 

  Boxguitars Boxguitars with total indifference 

  woke up one morning with drear sting 

  of penitential paroxysm its scandalous to sojourn 

  in a music house without some love&

  a baggage of note,

presented himself before the familiar bedfellow 

  instructor maestro seated at the piano

  among a sea of nodding heads with a deluge 

  of request imperative ambitious learner&

  was given a crash lesson in 

  jazz fantasia,

but despair his maturation is slow 

  gave up midway and took a 

  night bus to Calabar to feed on his old vomit,

who was twice rendered homeless squatting 

  with childhood friends practically wooed in 

  & still keep their contacts and no ill feelings,

who after thought tried enlisting in the great army 

  but forgotten to doctor their particulars

  to reflect the new reality,

who peeped through keyhole night after night 

  for months on the master trembling pleading 

  for more in coitus with the sweet first snatch of girlfriend 

  I think from childhood and tiptoed to the furniture 

  wishing they could swap roles,

 who in stunning dramatic fashion repeatedly lose

  their caps instead to deathly probes 

  that should have taken them to the cleaner,

who hurriedly taxied home from the peninsula

  desperately sick dismounted at a crossroad

  sidewalk befuddled crossed the highway

  into gas station Sweet sensation round table 

  with a cold bottle of orange crush,

standing on their heels glad to inform all agonizing 

  well-wishers that the condition of the labouring mountains 

  is expectedly painful but stable and promises to 

  usher in the Visionary babies new dawns,

for fireplace intended for the vulture will only 

  end up consuming other birds so unfortunate!

     Note : 

BLLB stands for acronym of a Yoruba phrase- Bose Lo, 

   Lo Sebo; meaning to come home empty handed after a period of sojourn.

Atipo is a Yoruba word which generically qualifies anybody or the act of serving

  one’s fatherland especially after university education.     

          ....  For Denis Ojadeni

[olaluwe]

  Nudge by doubts fears carefree attitudes,

  Instead of being led by their dream boldly,

With few exemptions,

  Many of my contemporaries and I

  were ruined and nearly ruined by letting themselves

  be drown indecisive in the sweeping showers

  of their splashy dawn,

energeticyoungsters fresh out of school clueless

  fleetfooting themselves through countywide

  streets highways &alleyways too

  looking instead for ridiculous quick fix menial

  jobs sites when they should have charted 

  a career course,

who caught napping supine on the faeces

  of unprofitable endeavours sheer drudgery

  &were flapped silly by ugly humongous flies of 

  absolute ridicule undone inevitably crashed-in,

who sleepy eyed early birds daily converge

  on Tarmacs U-turn or Fagba for hopeful pick

  by kind familiar unfamiliar operators, 

  buoyant industrialists or stayed back 

  with spin of Shovels sprouting 

  fields of concrete bricks,

and daily went home with Hell

  trapped in their bodies and famished and insatiate

  with heavy ploughman meals and thirsty for 

  cold water buckets all day,

who funnelled into the streets from Lagos to 

  Abeokuta to Ibadan to Oshogbo to Akure 

  violently protesting the voided 1993 presidential election 

  Watershed with mournful elegies, with songs daring 

  soldiers to shoot they’re a multitude, with

  borne-fires, with stone projectiles, with Molotov 

  cocktail through twisted regiments of tyres& 

  woods &irons barricades until the mob wear itself 

  out or were put down namely by whip

  of the grape shots apologies to Napoleon de 

  Bonaparte,  

who rightly thought the Feds is a scam 

  doing nothing to change their condition and

  did nothing themselves,

who repeatedly fatally faltered

  trying to walk before crawling,

 who idle talk from bed to bathroom to streets

  to peeps bunks of big money hit 

  yet despised the day of little beginning,

who went away pregnant with disobedience 

  defying the grandfather summon advisories

  caution suffering cathartic miscarriage luckily

  in the lonesome night of repentant self flagellation

  or returned prodigal with gaunt babies of 

  lamentations fed on humble pie,

who sweetened a gifted lady first time in Calabar

  who was a gifted lady from the Carpenter

  without protective socks on his foreskin

  on a scorching sunny afternoon tabooed

  in the sloppy ground yonder wooden quarters

  on matted floor with peeled painful kneecaps

  to the bargain &icing on the trauma-cake Gonorrhoea

  from the mournful sober strumpet intimated 

  who perfectly mimic the shade of a sweet homely

  girl met a striking deserted Hospital

  on Sunday& later found succour 

  at a street corner Apothecary with the lady 

  in tow leaving her still without a broken heart,

who was given a weighted round of applause

  in real life scenario at Crusher prompted by the 

  Red neck Director visiting for convincing moving 

  speech tagged Cicero the future assembly man 

  without any business whatsoever being a 

  ploughman wasting away,

who lone it through Kubwa& had the 

  longest night of his life barred from re-entering

  the estate PHS by the Gorgon faced officious guard

  accused of disrespecting hisses unfairly pleaded

  to no avail wounding up with insomnia in a wooden 

  church erect on the cliff edge feted on 

  by an army of hungry mosquitoes 

  with ruthless abandon,

who hungry out-of-pocket threw needless

  tantrums with a BLLB to hell with a project

  long delayed angrily returned to no tranquillity 

  base Lagos cramped into overloaded 1414bus on

  a night trip with a role of mat strapped under 

  his armpit for goody bag,

who rude to the stocky supervising major 

  on site& was rewarded instantaneous with 

  thunderous slaps by his aide-de-camp corporal

  with accompanying blurry starry vision,

who picked on by the grumpy aggressive 

  sergeant demoted & felled tripped with a deep cut 

  to his pelvic pursued & was given a clean suture

  &analgesic at the MRS,

who was evicted now from a different site 

  by same stocky major for combativeness irreconcilable

  disputes &picketing &symbolic poison 

  to site harmony,

and left high spirited with the older loquacious

  Edo man now lost unforgotten 

  in the maddening Lagos crowd,

who were welcome ecstatic by the old comrades

  at abattoir where LSDPC was piloting a new

  set of project,

who bereaved grieving hollow eyed 

  starting their teary sojourn from afar largely ignored,

Who idle descended on News stand from 

  from dawn to dusk &went home without any 

  significant takeaway but heated disagreeable 

  cacophonies of intellectual supremacists tribalise

  voices &dusty eyed severe figure heads 

  rowdy in turn at the forum of the street,

who were indefatigable fanatic supporters

  either queueing behind remember the Star crooner

  who sang ‘whirling hipped ladies have usurped the 

  microphone from his hand’ or the bare-chested 

  street fighter pugilist Moon crooner in a never ending 

  superiority tussle bearing on their bloody heads

  burdensome migraine of the duo 

  with soaring away success paying lip service to theirs,

who were chronic bachelors repeatedly stabbed

  in the heart by loveless ravishing angels

  roaring at dawn in their hunt 

  of still waters greener pastures,

who jumped at every chanced discussion 

  on who the best player in the world is 

  or the richest- Messi or Ronaldo,

  an over flogged debate, 

who took to crime pickpocket in crowded bus stops

  pedestrian walks on rickety Molues plying shallow

  highway routes one-chance in smaller buses Varagons

  ripping their victims off valuables 

  pushed off on motion to their bruises deaths

  crushed by the unfortunate hit and run drivers,

who metamorphosis into superhighway bank vault 

  dynamite armed robbers to protest poverty ravaging

  the land perceived injustices to their regions 

  lopsided federalism non implementation of fiscal 

  federalism hopelessly,

a mass of rueful sobbing scapegoats 

  held by the wrists in lawman Hulux trucks 

  driven through the elephant gate

  behind wailing walls of lion building remand jails 

  &were never seen again,

who were disagreeable dagger-drawn 

  in crowded football Viewing centre at Bori camp 

  and escaped through the low walls 

  into the creeks without a trace 

  leaving somebody dripping in stanch,

who anticipatory painted a live cow in blue 

  on mainland Lagos to be butchered 

  for barbecue cocktail because Chelsea 

  they instinctively violently believe will win 

  for the first time UEFA champions 

  league &they  did &hell was let loose 

  with scores dead benighted by marijuana haze 

  alcoholic binge from reckless joyride 

  honking motorcade through shallow streets 

  dark under perpetual swathe 

  of power outage,

who went through universities with morale 

  high flown struggled not for lack of intellectual 

  abilities but material comfort pull it off

  below the  class and still celebrated,

who mandatory were posted to the North east

  the hot bed of murderous insurrectionists 

  Boko haram hole up in the Sambisa forest

  picked a pocketful of pellets on the streets 

  riding on the Bicycle and still had 

  a resourceful Atipo,    

who gambled away their tuition fees 

  gathered all night in empty apartment 

  of a Canadian trained aeronautic engineer 

  deportee and so dropped out of college 

  wondering where next to go but went nowhere 

  pass self destruct crack smoking

  street urchins, 

who were bosom friends and loyal comrades

  hustling in tattered clothes hooded disguised 

  undisguised eating bread the scalp of their 

  unshaven heads unknown,

who were the secret heroes and super heroes 

   of this poem now lost permanently non-permanently

   from Denis to Sam to Roger in specs not the 

   real name- sorrow to the memory of a gallant 

   hustler lost in his sleep lording it over 

   work and academics up in the centre of unity,

let heavens calm its impatient loom for our total

  homely recall for we are all speedily tracking  towards 

  our fated sunsets bound to the threesome old 

  mileage of Time divided,

who groaned in repeated interface 

  with the visionary Celestian shepherds 

  who were visionary sexy eyed Celestian prophetesses 

  trying to unravel the mystery behind 

  their multitude of woes,

 and went through bath rituals ringed 

  by three elders screaming Jah jah jah 

  with seven candle sticks sponge scent oil eggs coconut

  to be exhausted in running water

  or Blackstone stationary

  in the churchyard mercy land,

who slept for ten years on Boxguitars 

  Boxguitars Boxguitars with total indifference 

  woke up one morning with drear sting 

  of penitential paroxysm its scandalous to sojourn 

  in a music house without some love&

  a baggage of note,

presented himself before the familiar bedfellow 

  instructor maestro seated at the piano

  among a sea of nodding heads with a deluge 

  of request imperative ambitious learner&

  was given a crash lesson in 

  jazz fantasia,

but despair his maturation is slow 

  gave up midway and took a 

  night bus to Calabar to feed on his old vomit,

who was twice rendered homeless squatting 

  with childhood friends practically wooed in 

  & still keep their contacts and no ill feelings,

who after thought tried enlisting in the great army 

  but forgotten to doctor their particulars

  to reflect the new reality,

who peeped through keyhole night after night 

  for months on the master trembling pleading 

  for more in coitus with the sweet first snatch of girlfriend 

  I think from childhood and tiptoed to the furniture 

  wishing they could swap roles,

 who in stunning dramatic fashion repeatedly lose

  their caps instead to deathly probes 

  that should have taken them to the cleaner,

who hurriedly taxied home from the peninsula

  desperately sick dismounted at a crossroad

  sidewalk befuddled crossed the highway

  into gas station Sweet sensation round table 

  with a cold bottle of orange crush,

standing on their heels glad to inform all agonizing 

  well-wishers that the condition of the labouring mountains 

  is expectedly painful but stable and promises to 

  usher in the Visionary babies new dawns,

for fireplace intended for the vulture will only 

  end up consuming other birds so unfortunate!

     Note : 

BLLB stands for acronym of a Yoruba phrase- Bose Lo, 

   Lo Sebo; meaning to come home empty handed after a period of sojourn.

Atipo is a Yoruba word which generically qualifies anybody or the act of serving

  one’s fatherland especially after university education.     

          ....  For Denis Ojadeni