Poetry Bulawayo

Word, her words Fall so strong, like the hummer, Judge’s stamp of justice So smooth at times Whipped cream Fluffy on my tongue I hear her rhyme Poesy, music I hear When she speak... I have learnt Without success to live without The sound of her laughter That naughty smile Childish even, The many times Down memory lane We would travel, releasing The young us.. Oh, how I gravely miss That warm giddy feeling Anticipation, anxiety even The feeling of meeting The feeling of reconnecting, The music she would evoke The rhythm of feeling... Sensuous tones Of words unspoken The very thought Of meeting her the morrow She was, is my poem She wrote the very words Defined the stanza of my happiness Without her, I’m but a prose Words without music A drama without rhythm and rhyme How days could pass Without the slightest notice Without her Am I stuck? Love struck  I’m immobile She gave me motion The d...

Apply lipstick and heels and tease more than hair, watch as she saunters into the dense night woods

Image - photographer unknown Last night last night I last night I met (how do I say this) last night I met the devil I said last night I met the devil and he had tired of conversations about convalescing economies and conspiracy theories satanising religions and sanitising minds by brandishing threats and excuses in the defence of corrupt despotic African governments and imperialistic European and American nations bent on taking over the continent he had tired of speaking to a lesser pedigree of thinkers for he was a genius one who could write and rewrite the history of nations front to back and back to front in the movement of a woman he was watching one with whom he was committing a lonely sin with in his cranium his hungry eyes tore her dress which resembled an oversized t-shirt accentuating her thighs and giving character to her hips so his hand slithered into his pocket to caress the crisp bank notes he was whetting his appetite savouring the mome...

Your doors wide open with an embracing breast Sat me in the discomfort of an unfulfilled reality A nudging at my peace Scotching in my emotion A fruit hanging strangely off the branches of an unsuspecting tree Dying (or are you just pulling my leg) Dead, with a clear knowledge of the end I asked once Has it started again? That journey whose end we all know at the beginning of every relationship Has it started again? Because, I feel more afraid than free More text book than me I am ruin trapped within my ignoring my beckoning emotions Whirling up into this frustration of unspoken word I am logic ridiculed by this need To respond to my heart but then again to my respect of you I feel like a man grown old constantly looping in first grade A hopeless romantic  Prostitute Biting her bottom lip in response to that need to get paid An old soul in a new reality Drops of rain in the lifeless limbo of the concrete jungle A free man that j...