photo from pixabay
//Evolve// Wheeling—pernicious, an immortal connection, the emerging of a time machine—turning my body into eons—separating this secret oath to my blooming. My body is currently a pillar of dependency! I cry the rivers down my eyebrows, a pillar of ice gathered in thorns Watch me as I dissolve my body into camouflage. I bud... I'm a living-dead! I cut... I'm a rebirth! What power do I wield? Am I spewing some sense, oh Millipede? & these beings who do not belong to the sand or stone, tree or water, sky or bodyform, would they forsake me to tide between rivers & tombs/or win or lose? I speak. I overcome! I stumble. I evolve! //I'M NOT A BEGGAR// I run into the Coldness of this poem—torned. taw. Termites finding their blade to gnaw I wonder who wooed my mother to spit me on Wednesday—in an unknown world I would wander in hotness if I pull out on the fourth day during the era of rebirth/ reincarnation/ splashing/ If a boy sip the tears of richness as refreshment & goes back cloaked/ clockwise/ on an empty stomach. I wash into a new poem & rebrand myself as 'Indomie'—or I wash outside a free verse & come back as a snake... If the street is so beautiful to sleep inside, why is it the anathema of tourist scenes that do not breed investors, to erect the imbalances of life? Today, the sound of clutches would flee me home, tonight, I shall be the chariot to captain the liberty ship & sail & sail & sail ... & my teeth clutching on the rotten soils, teething on maggot shall sing a wealthy song; I am not a beggar. I am not a beggar! //ZERO// & you chapel that itinerary causing a volcano in the chaparrals & this conscience playing you like a tennis ball running after a bat your head is full of captioned movies flickering your body to the heirs of fiction & mourning your ego on this vast face recounts your indelible failures Can you plant your sores in the soil and dive into the streams of God's eye for purification? your story is telling itself in crystals, a quinine heart, into a stormy sea this miles you ride on is tilting this is a boy's note on a tomb you don't like you pray without supplication & your story is told in a book that is circular than your grief— you roam & comes back to zero @k.Asare-Bediako Trapped in Deceit by K. Asare- Bediako
Fevers of the Mind 
1 comment