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T’ila

A sonnet in your bonnet

 

Time itself cannot incur                                                                                                                    An eternity long enough to tear                                                                                                    Away, how I love the poison in your hair                                                                                          How it flows fluid flawless beside your stare                                                                                 A beautiful mess perched on your shoulder. Heaven is rare                                                      Aesthetic echelons of your beauty stumbling with care                                                         Transparent shadows corner your eyes                                                                               Accentuate your brows and calm a sea’s tides                                                                          Rose flavored lipstick                                                                                                                            I hear angels asking God for a new make-up kit                                                                        Sweet fairies nesting in either cheek                                                                                              Snow White’s genes gleam in your teeth                                                                                Creation without you would be incomplete                                                                           Imperfection is a myth, you’re where wind and air meet…

 

The Penmistress’

Emeli…

10/08/91
For Emeli Sande

There is a place
A warm place
Whose light has shone on no face
Eaven or ell you may have a name for it
A chunk of frozen time and your soul yearns for it
Could be in secret
But after Emeli’s enchantment give yourself flame to burn every regret
Every single little piece of me, hear her song say
Every Davidan harp in her voice will cure you from letting any wrong stay
It started raining outside on the eighth line
Every angel’s tears fell in an invisible line
I stood under the open sky
Not a drop touched me and I knew why
Because every single little piece of me
Is every single little breath of your heart’s every plea
The second time I knelt down and prayed
‘Gratitude,’ the blessing bullets from heaven said
I felt your every fear
Those you hate and those you hold dear
Clenching my fists for you I heard Emeli tear
Them to shreds shredded to shreds
Do you not believe in miracles
In the invisibility of shackles
Or in my decree of goodwill for you as the last of the Oracles
The way that I believe in you and all your won battles?
At the thought of thinking of you every single little piece of me rattles
My dear reader
My friend and nearer
For you I’ve seen every single little star tingle to shambles

There is a place
A warm place
Whose true light has shone on few a face
The reason for your Sunday
Revealed to Emeli Sande
Will your tomorrow morning be day one or still some day?

From every little piece of me to every little piece of you.
The Penmaster

Dawn’s yawn.

 

Chronicles of the night.
Whispers crackling from an abyss out of sight.
For the gifted who watch by ear and hear by sight.
A veil torn as a sword hunts for its knight.
I envy sleep,
Father away from me please keep at keep,
That rafter of air eternally sworn to keep,
My feet from walking the floors of imagination’s deep.
Where there’s petals of a dream to fall on.
Voldermort baptized to Harry’s hocruxes to call on.
An audience’s whims for enchantment to have another go on.
For in my pen chokes an invisible play that must go on.
Devious Destiny’s sirens beckon and my shoes run late.
Is it better to sprint to her embrace or to levitate?
Demons risen but each held in a hangman’s noose by guardian angels.
My blood warms in the cold air as a parasitic idea gives it reason for tendrils.

In the chronicles of the night,
What’s a run without a fight?
In my messianic hands are futures more than mine that abort any doubt in my might.
Not stronger.
Just willed to have died longer.
The reason is a seasonally bad researched myth.
Written in a baobab’s golden pith.
Around whom my arms form a wreath.
Excalibur’s alchemist draws nigh
And I feel the warmth grow between anticipation’s pair of thigh.
Floors drenched while memorial memories’ paintings lose their dye.
As rain seeps from God’s Creation Room on high.
The Most High,
Smiling secret in a sigh.
Chronicles of tepid night.
Unfulfilled fulfillment blunts her extinct saber teeth to bite.
The incessant battle for Tomorrowland herein never feels more right.
The common thread in our hearts’ plight…

Dear Lilith, Eve or Adam somnambulistic or not,
As we witness Father Time rot,
Will you stand with me and fight?

 

The Penmaster

This one’s to all my sisters

Them and all you others too.
You already had me before you said, “Boo!”
This ship sails on invisible waves and we’re the crew.
On a sea that’s transparent all the way,
So we see Titanic’s faded mast some miles away.
Proud of you is the understatement of the century.
The battles you’ve won and those you still fight have filled a century.
This wretched earth the grand jury.
One just graduated,
Ignorance she just done cremated.
And like another just gave birth to a beautiful baby girl,
The course of her life she’s vowed with all her might to entail.
One just silenced a treacherous yet young appendix.
Another scene in her movie worth more than all of Netflix.
Call it a matrix
But one just pulled nine hat tricks.
Academic’s ancient architecture rebuilt and she’s laying her bricks.
One just caught an arrow from Cupid,
And showed her better half where to put it.
See they got you wrong.
Sing thyself your song.                                                                                                                  Your dreams wouldn’t die if it came with multiple reincarnation tickets.
Mother Nature’s pitch black starry sky on thick thickets.
Thoughts of you to me on that canvas paint clear the sound of crickets.
If my pen really were God’s wand, I’d give you nothing less,
Than pure perfectness.
For having you heals the soul, see you’re the perfect nurse.
What you’ve done and didn’t I stand as president of your fan club.
Miraculous miracles like a hen’s blub.
Here’s to greatness. Yours and yours.
Blessings from The Almighty falling outside, you’re proof that rain pours.
Yours in scores.
The Penmaster

Excerpt from ‘What it takes to be God, in black,’ My fifth book, and the fifth seal.

“Anything else written in my name should only perpetuate and propagate that if it should fathom to suffice as religion,” The last word past his lips had a sendoff of emphasis. So much of that statement was pregnant with meaning, Kevin’s consciousness had to drift to his room and back again to His presence. Just to try what you can term understanding.
“So you’re saying religion is-”
“False? True religion is no religion at all, my son. What you have are institutions. Created solely to teach but one thing to those who will listen. Love, and nothing else.

I’m talking to your soul, not your body. Do not be confounded. More so by yourself. Remember it was you who applied for my job. You should have read ‘Job.’ Do you remember Job?”
Kevin looked at the figure before him. A man without a face. Clothed in nothing and clothing nothing at the same grain of a blink. He had His right hand on a table silvery pure. And on that table, at the tip of His fingers’ cocoon, a blue quill.
He was writing, just as He spoke. As though every word and stroke manifested simultaneously on some parchment unseen in the air.

“I am,” said God. “That which you’re thinking right now, I am. Always have and will as I let Time live on,”
“Okay, I do remember Job. The only man known to have had enough patience to even have a phrase after his name,”
“Good. Do you remember what I told him before his restoration from tribulation?”
“Yes, I do. But wait, before my stream of consciousness goes away again. Please tell me why it is wrong that in the beginning You created the heaven and earth?”
“It is not wrong, but it is the wrong way to start the song. In the beginning, was the word…first and foremost. The word was with ‘I,’ and the word was ‘I.’ In essence, all things existent and non, were birthed from the intellectual womb of a writer’s artistry and imagination. The proper statement should therefore read: In the beginning was written, the heaven and the earth,”
“Okay. So you’re a writer. Wait, artist or writer?”
“Both and neither, Kevin. I am love and nothing else. Now tell me about Job,”
Kevin heaved a breath, ” I just remember how you answered him to show the minute nature of our mortal minds as humans. But no, that wasn’t You. Was that You or Jesus, your son? What’s the real story about him, God? And where is he? Doing gardening?”
A smirk of a small laugh escaped God’s mouth somehow. Humor. This was particularly interesting to Kevin. Just as interesting as his whereabouts now.
He looked around, and before he registered whatever feat of creation he was sitting in, God replied, “A man by the name Nathaniel Mpofu has already addressed that in his second book of seven now. And counting. ‘The Unreader.’ An exceptional dish of calligraphic finesse and unmatched creativity. You have it in your college library but you’ve never read it,”
“Nathaniel…”
The name didn’t blow as much as a whistle.
“Yes. Well there are numerous diamonds in the dirt the earth still hasn’t found. Your blissfully ignorant inability to recognize real genius at first glance is often the mother of the blame. ‘Jesus’ as you call him, is still where you first found him. In a place you knew once.

Now tell me the answer I gave Job. Time is an illusion to you, but you have opened your eyes and that cannot remain. You have given it a limitation now. But we need to finish this interview before I send you back to your body,”

A small hourglass suddenly materialized in Kevin’s hands. On the one half of curved transparency it contained again sky blue sand. Naturally, he tilted it without much thought and the contents began to pour into the empty bulb.
“It has begun, my son. Speak. I have a lot to show you…”

‘Angvil’ books’ launch coming soon.
The Penmaster.

For Eve. And all her daughters.

Loud silence. So piercingly quiet as it is overcrowded.
By a song for you ’cause you surround it.
It’s Sunday so I guess I’m at church and the Reverend’s given me the mic.
To let my limitations take a hike.
See women, if wanting to make you smile is addictive then I have a drug problem.
But I don’t intend tending to it ’cause this ink is enough problems.
Seeing as you’re all Queens, maybe one will Knight me as her king.
Pawns and rooks trivially try to play me.
But Eve, kiss them all for me and find me a bishop that can sing.
Yes I’ve been learning chess.
What a mess.
But still with them all I’m a priceless record like any from Elvis the King.
Let them listen with their eyes and in the harp of their breasts play me.

Dear Eve, here we are you and I.
Does my stare remind you of Adam’s eye?
Hope not because my genes are different.
Thanks to my mother. A woman like you but the anatomy of her heart is so different.
Where’s your tomb? Let me put flowers on it.
All the sorts you remember from Eden. Marinate it.
This eulogy’s meant to tell all the daughters you’ve birthed from time immemorial,
By all means ceremonial.
How much I adore them.
How their smiles and laughs make it hard to ignore them.
How the curves of their figures,
Get me disfigured.
And my mind forgets it’s a retard.
How the smell of their hair and ecstasy in the sound of their whine,
Dulls and simultaneously polishes me like the breathtaking proposals I dream of with perilous portions of the purifying potion, purplish red wine.
How the flawlessness of their manicure,
And pedicure,
Brews in me a cure
For all who don’t applaud a creature so beautiful.
For making breathing so beautiful.
See the shade of their touch is silk soft.
And oft,
Too much of it is never enough.
But a sealed elixir in every one of their lips I swear is more than enough.

Eve, holy mother of a god, tell all your daughters.
Your feline goddesses and fairies.
Just how much sacredness every look in their eyes carries.
A horrible craziness life would be without your ladies.
Mothers and sisters.
Friends and partners.
Soulmates and lovers.
The true human forms of the God above us.

Sometimes Cupid shoots his arrows so fast I can’t get out of The way.
And I can’t help but lose count for I love them all though not in the same way.
Can you blame me when Adam couldn’t resist your hand with an apple?
Tell them in this poet’s eye they’re the apple.
It can never be right to thank his rib for you.
Simmer your tongue on mine while my fingers play notes on each rib on you.
And all around us a milky moon dawns.
Illuminating Eden’s flowers in a colourful field no one owns.
Fuck, if the future has pledged in store for us a daughter can we name her something like Dawn.
Eve in your offspring,
I’ve found a cooling hot spring.
With this pledge of affection give me your hand on their behalf.
Let me fall headfirst in your warmth and split my head in half.
And in your soul cherish this diamond ring I give you.
Truth in black English,
Let me finish,
Open wide, in holy matrimony my soul I give you.
The Penmaster.

Foolish enough to be a fool again?

The first thing I wrote that day was your name.
See you’re the silk hands that unclothe my shame.
The demons in me fear your power to tame.
Every woman you meet in my life is threatened by your name.
See they know nothing, but if we have to tell them then they don’t have to know at all.
It’s free-fall
But we don’t sell parachutes
If my angels have guns I hope each and every one of them shoots.
Me and you have history.
With them it’s just chemistry.
I only met them recently,
And apparently,
I’m a dictional alchemist.
So understand I couldn’t resist.
Thoughts of you persist.
I’m not new to this, I’m true to only this
And its you my soul can’t resist.
But that’s just history, what about now?
As the lads have it, what about the today in either of us?
Time lives in neither of us.
So what’s the wait when the colour of our blood is the infinity in both of us?
Most times we never know we’re dancers till the light shows us how,
To immortalise the moment it lights up for us where there’s no rewind or forward but only now.

The richest man in Babylon says money is the medium by which earthly success is measured.
But could just being next to you in front of a cursed and blessed priest in Manchester Castle be how way too far I’ve measured?

What you need to know is I’ve found reasons.
For me and all the seasons,
That us and the people in our people have toiled like peasants.
In you from me is the reason why the world wakes up every morning.
Some yawning and some mourning.
You’re the reason why we do the former,
With the shine of a high school kid with a plan-probably fourth former.
A look that lasts any longer,
Than two blinks in your eyes is an imitation of immortality.
Read these words so you will carry them with you to your own immortality.
Infinity.
Folded in eternity.
These are songs to listen to when you remember where we are now…

I have other creations to write so I’ll cut it short for now.
Not in vain hope to leave you with a wow,
But because I have to talk to the things stopping dude from having you now.
Just a bunch of ‘dumb, stupid and both,’ devils with hooks,
Maybe add a few flimsy excuses of spells and overrated spell books.
Plus The Creator’s will,
And whatever else our mirrors dream and will.
The entire university of the universe on one man. The dictionary calls me severely undermanned.
But it’s not an unequitable equation for only for you is the price of my blood on demand.
For me it’s now or never.
A torturous blissful endeavor.
Whose sea we’ve sailed from birth without a rafter.
And not a paddle because that would insinuate motion
Yet in reality the Black Pearl was stuck in life’s anatomy of emotion.

Are those all the bullets we had in the gun?
All those clips of rounds fired and back and we never caught one?
Tomorrow’s a choice we make, so my love, when it comes remember yesterday we were better off as one.
Freedom loses its worth when you can’t stay in the kitchen and cook more creation.
So hold that thought of me leaving without a good goodbye like I’m rushing to my cremation.

Because I’ve just met you again, in a different form.
A different painting God made for this time where we individually seek and mould form.
Another trail of a different set of brushes hewing paint on the canvas of time.
She makes me wonder what causes and necessitates time.
If the heaven in her eyes is something I hope will fight aging.
Seemingly impossible as Father Time himself is aging.
See to me her soul whispers a reason why it’d be right to write Father Time an ink induced coma just so another moment with her can be better than the last.
Behold, the field between this notebook and the vessel between your lungs is so vast.
Miss Knowles says, ‘pretty hurts, so what’d you expect?’ And she’s asking if I’m happy with myself.

So i closed my eyes a heart beat ago and saw you sing back that you know me more than myself.
You’d reached that curious looking book on the high from a certain high shelf.
My reader,
Far and wide yet you’re nearer,
Read it now therefore and we’ll both give the devil the reason he needs to hang himself.
Foolish again?
The Penmaster.

An excerpt from, ‘The nineth life.’ My sixth book and the sixth seal.

So much had happened in the last three days. On Sunday, his ex girlfriend turned small house had burst into the church service demanding child maintenance.
“Practice what you preach!” she had yelled. “Your son needs diapers right now. Why can’t you just be a man for once in your life?!”
It had been the same Sunday that his new Range Rover had been unveiled to the congregation. Offering money that had served its purpose very well. And his wife, Anna, had seen it all from the front row. What you reap you first sow, how at that moment in his plantation he had wished it would snow. But even he didn’t control the weather. On God’s scale of might he was but a feathery feather.

“Machaya, what is this nonsense?!” Anna had revolted. The whole service had come to a screeching halt as some wretched skeleton had crawled out of his closet. More like a sacred vault.
“But why, Machaya, WHYY???!” she had began to cry her tear glands dry.

Perhaps the only good thing about the pentecostal pandemonium had been that their only daughter, Ruth had been outside with the other kids…Before she’d fallen sick. An unknown disease had suddenly taken its toll on her. A severe threat to her health he’d never set eyes on. Right now she sat behind him in the car with a tube going in her nose. The pastor had ran out of words as though he had never read the bible before. None of its verses would save him now. Not when his sins demanded forgiveness and it showed. To top it off, as from Monday morning numerous newspaper and live news headlines had made sure that the public wouldn’t catch amnesia on him and his scandal. A public figure publicly disfigured. To write what he felt as being the most pathetic humanoid alive would be the understatement of the century.

Invisible under the blanket of air in the car, Hillary watched as Machaya racked a hand through his hair and heaved a heavy sigh. To Hillary, the pastor’s choice was simple: he should just come clean and clean up his mess. So he had slept around a little and it had caught up with him. He had to man up and handle it. But that was nowhere near his forte right now. He was faltering. Premeditated self murder crept in like a chilling shadow on his shoulder.

Something in Machaya and his mental notes from years of journeying through philosophy and religious theology finally hissed. It whispered the ever present presence of a choice. Ruth coughed again and he jerked back. A cough or her body amplifying a symptom?
“Sorry, baby, sorry, sorry,” he repeated as he leaned over and fixed her up straight or something. Another look at her pain burned more of the flesh on his very being. This was his daughter for God’s sake. What on earth was he doing not sitting right next to her. If she breathed her last silent innocent moments back there what made him think he’d hear it from the driver’s seat. Exactly how messed up could one fool get?
Hillary’s soul shook its head in Machaya’s ignorant pity. Wondering how this man could possibly, at this dire dying moment, pray against lingering death when he didn’t understand life…
‘Angvil’ books’ launch coming soon.
The Penmaster.

Where we once were

We were crossing a road when for some reason you stayed or fell behind. A bus beamed a second later from a second away, and I had two steps to back track behind. I caught you before you caught a corpse that had just crashed into you. It saved you but left breath in blood stains on you. In your head what did you say at my funeral?Although oblivious to how I’d just changed my number to Roman numerals.

Did you say how you’d given up the fight and left me behind? When we could have left much more behind. Did you blame it, on somebody else or frame it? Like a picture in our cell where you could fart and I couldn’t even tell, any more. Because we’d been there a life and a few days more. The floor was almost the same but the air was by far most different. Mine and yours. The very oxygen in the air had found a way to differentiate us and split course. But if we were even separated by air how could I have allowed this feeling to dare? To try and acquire your heart so i could feed it mine and appease it with the colour of its blood. The colour of your name. Foolish? Yeah well once a lover always one. We came apart so that means we were once one and how could I have set that apart?

Till death plays his part.

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