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After the Flood

That time you gauge rain replaces precious things;
the houses—rape-busted, and summer
has been away
for little years. From whence do the wind
rake a city before. From here, it’s as if
someone catches fire with bare hands.
I stare immaculately at the dizzy wind, crook,
debris, beside the rusty vulcanizing shop,
empty nylons with
burnt cans and watch
the birds loll the sky.
Every airing thing emerges from a source,
each droplets of muddy faeces of wet animals
interconnects, nude pebbles;
from this space they scatter to flow.
Busy scape; zoomlions used to
slumber by heaps in gutters.
Not this year’s: they have to extend their rakes—(stay,
watch, sleep or drown). Later,
marshmallow, flowing across interracial cities
to survive in this cityscape named after the bellies
of caucus
to dupe. It’s a ruffle to dream without
a rifle in the barracks.
they carry their legs in disparity, lingering
watch night. To catch fire with bare hands, to touch a cauldron
from an earthen oven, the reality of stranded.
We don’t collide;
we are the finishings of our own province, be at ease,
be at peace, seize the same breath and desert the present
like growth.
For the fire, a righteous testament. For finishings,
fetch the mud, the ramshackles, see the
whimpering child, impoverished homes, the line after each fog
through which the butterflies disappear.

The Mythology of the Internet as My Father’s Grief

Only if the world is a hissing thing that my father becomes a
serpent to crawl on every problem of telecommunication.

I do not want to deceive the internet here, or my typos to produce
a sensation of words void of meaning into something weird
unchanging the suspense to persist all my life.

& you might want to be a digitalized person to harvest the banter
voice in this poem,
what I said in a lustful sigh, knitting opinions with a spacebar,
what I left after the ache rested on my fingers.

under the sheets

Say I want peace to avail between my father & father’s
when they did nothing to linger.
I’m mostly named after anything that slips through a tarantula news,
a tenacity of a makeshift rumour.
A balcony of a tech house I wish to be known as part of the
pathogens in communication
which uncumbers the cliches on zoom meetings.

My father Microsoft his routine as a hawking number scattered on
a spreadsheet—
a trading artisan of network of a technological periphery.
How to unmake antivirus in a way as a harmless disease,
clicking on instructions with a letter fishing Bold letters.

We never shapeshift our devices by compressing, hinge-clutching
on a browser.

My father, an analyst, swallowing language like air, a norm, when he
yearns to make a clutter, web sensation, that which makes him
satisfy our trespassers.

Parables of Suffering

Say hustle is a premade to schlamperei
& a street child would blin at your imprudence

to say cry, you rub sand in each hands
& smut them on a dry skin
like sweat

you’d need to visit the northern zones
& ask about men in indulgence

to say that you have shot of money
you’d need to breach your ass for
grapes—that one to quench a step

or how do you birth children of hopeless chances —
the parable is not a routine to skunked men
who you can think of, so what then?

we think faster than our mind can stalk
for a bottle of dizziness/ what we talk

& talk faster than we mumble, a dumble of bumblebees which gather frost

but the parable does not still
it saunter the chances of mythology
into a saucepan of hover slam

such that death becomes the second language of the street

when you scrape benevolence after
squeaking the parable

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