Tai Lifestyle
I drafted a speech for all my worries inspired by anxiety. I hold the memory of my father in
figures, to grow complex like a risk of further maths.
It's proven: a boy is to tongue his mother's nomenclature.
So for this intent, I pitch my adjectives in phrases & words spread into branches.
English students settled by my window & picked
their life answers & left without jargons.
The word accent owns a citadel of formulas; on
lifting my mouth, I stumbled on sibilant between
a coherent chaos of syllables.
For all its diction, scaring mathematics students from their seats
is a means of imposing tongue tariffs.
Meaning, a forcible mechanism alloted on phonetics.
In my scariest movie, I weave my grief in a boy's face to meet my father in my dream
biting some English terms to sound like parrots' notes.
Verbs draw me nigh to my own slaughter— tieing
a baked sentence across a plane street:
my weirdest form of lending acres of lingo,
dressed in a labyrinth museum.
Yesterday, I shared beverages with my friends to sample my crude art
who wanted to trace my home number.
A stimulant from the past plot me into a graph,
brings my interest to a closest check.
I look out from my window in a cartoon aesthete
& found my grief looking gorgeous
across the binary street guzzling acres of asphalt.
My happiness is still pending.
Slum
My hamlet looks overrun
by endless armies of fleas & bedbugs
parading my walls, feasting on sickening chucks.
human urines & shits lie in their harmful
custom, armed with permeative irony—
it punctured my lungs & i ran out of oxygen.
i perceived night waste in burnt plastic,
repleted with the brackish stream. a grime-eyed violence watches at me, in a hole full of
fleas.
hell could be worse: bullies here drown you in slow, grinning sludge.
housing in cemetery avenue,
another agonizing experience. i am torn apart
by the manner of shantytowns, living organisms worshipping slums out of curiosity.
God, if not anything, send a whirlwind, scrub me clean
of this slum's crises.
if not anything, let grief gleam gorgeous in the presence of harm: withstanding the
impediment of shame.
A Morphogenesis of Black Chemistry
in black years,
we chant litanies with tongue charred by criminal luck;
blackness as an art of fashion is put in a different context.
in our distraction, everyone of us wore our pigments
so as to lend our nature to osmosis.
i would like to have a darker burnt bronze worn on my skin.
i love it: it's morphin apparel in preserving my colour.
i carry the form of my father and practice shouting rebellion.
in our DNA, we: asphalt in glory,
hold the sun's longitude in our skin
to wind a fabric unplagued by slur.
we are very movable people.
we travel round the world and stay up irrigating resources as a routine.
in my algebraic thought,
we are more in numbers coming from an alchemy:
how black scientists rot in an unversed lab.
in other occasion, i seek direction for pocket scrap,
a map willing to lend me cohesiveness on litany
because i am having trouble remembering.
i am indecisive:
too many beings in my bedroom wanting to split or not live between unanchored boundaries.
behold, this skin, henceforth you are a library.
i demand the audacity of inks tracing my name in onyx.
