Au dieu, Charlene

Is regret lodging in your head, Charlene?

I’ve no clue you’ll lead me into a sauce,
like the kind I’ve seen in a movie’s scene.
Now that the fortune of my life looks lean,
the spring from my head, your hand tried to toss!
Is regret lodging in your head, Charlene
The mind is losing the might to stay mean,
it’s on wheels to cut my life now a dross,
like the kind I’ve seen in a movie’s scene.
There has to be some rope or a machine
to help me depart from this life of loss.
Is regret lodging in your head, Charlene?
False victim! Making me a foe with spleen,
why not gulp some gin to lose your hand’s gloss,
like the kind I’ve seen in a movie’s scene.
Naught from you to end me stands! I’ll stand clean
with wings to rise while you’re down with your cross.
Is regret lodging in your head, Charlene,
like the kind I’ve seen in a movie’s scene?
Editor: Obinna Eruchie

Praise of the Progenitrix

Mystics listen to her
Cynics vomit her
Midwives truth-birth her
And since always
Welcome her on hands
That insidious trash
To fill their pitchers
With her feces.
Born from the spirit of pride
From the spleen of law
From the blood of forefathers
From the womb of lies
From seventy-seven
The fools loved her
Saints like a knick-knack
Showed her on the fair
Liars about her
Sexually fantasized
Ecce Veritas
Spends her life next to Dionysius,
Bloodless turkey cocks and donkeys
Smell her sacred beak.
Crowned with laurels
Permeated with boredom
In the tasteful asylum
And she sings in blood
To dampened strings
While watching her reflection
In the lavatory of Hades
Now already an ageing whore
Arose from the dream
To maintain the dream.

sync with mine wishes for the better days for all

a hinted thought within my head’s grasp

processing attempts as each memorising
sublime flash of evil genius
penetrates my mind

blinding ringing echo of fire
awaiting for the return of some being
I personally have never witnessed before

and yet continue bearing like
a treasured secret code of the heart

to share yet long as if to cherish
as the 1st discoverer
place pregnant backup aids by not
chasing dreams


cherish its prized moments
along well-penned lines of living it.

Fates will always be differentiating
between origins of true life.
However, origins of free will
truthfully never differ

in any fate brought
between those trying to be heard.
A whisper triggers thirst for knowledge in

While a panicked scream can send us running
in the wrong path, secluded from all else
I can finally close the lid of my eyes

in being inspired, eyes wait not for
the dawn’s whistling birds’ dream
in sync with mine of better days break for all

to see us walk past through another evil eye
on its way,
of poetically rhythmic challenge
to pledge in well-penned form.

Everything is without my past weakening crutch
in our daily healing needs
if ever we hope to carry our torches healthily
throughout our chosen marathons of life.
to share something as oneness itself.

Editor: Obinna Eruchie

Blackface, Le Chauchemar

Lyrics’ struggles do not die nor fear.
In the Seine Church, I am crowned;
Blackface with goat’s horn,
the fantastic scene
of a nightmare.
Shoe polish, tailcoats, burnt cork,
gloves, wigs, greasepaint and lipstick
to exaggerate your beauty,
the perfect foil for a barrow-man;
an Abyssinian prince in revelry,
goes happy-go-lucky and darky
on the dandified racoon;
the laughing face, the weeping face,
the sock and the jackboot are infinite.
Shadow of death haunts spinning head,
Egyptian soil’s death is better than
Cold shoulder’s worthlessness.
Never go out of
the separating shade of sickness.
I am a mortal man, jealous of
the way which seems just to a man
in the suffered martyrdom makeup.
At the churchyard, your song they sung
of scaffold dresses they cannot afford.
Editor: Obinna Eruchie

Omnia fluit

Aye, and an imploring monk plays
On the common Spanish needles
Of burr marigold!

When rippled winds blare
And flowers’ form will crack no more,
The springs’ fountains that were seen so
fragrant and green,

Green earth
With rich frozen pudding all candied o’er,
henceforth stringed instrument lass, with her white wine face
And her air kiss so dreadfully pale violet.

But it is not so, with those that go
Through frost and snow, both great and small,
We are here to-day and gone to-morrow.

Editor: Obinna Eruchie

In The Balovale’s tribes mausoleum (of human history od living and dying)


Airily at a fragrance-oozing garden                                         a gem-beautified tree leaving a peg of bright white wood


Thrilled hand sculpting faces to add to                           by the garden


With midsummer rose petals of                                         Venusian Red by the sides floor-strewn in rows



Too holy to pray                                                                      my eyes looked at the firmament’s high girdle


to dive in seclusion into light



It’ll just be one great summer of red tea


and I shall disrobe myself before nature                          and taste of love


hear the cortege the flutes and the                                    tambourines

perceived in the wind


Entombed beneath the mountains of Himalayas seclusion


In The Balovale’s tribes mausoleum


where it always smells like greasy secretion


during circumcision, an ancient torture for babies



From ancient precursor to what we call warfare


Since Ilyad then Tiberius’ Holocene and the charge of the light brigade


were terrifying, inglorious flash which had souls charred to ashes,


the blood kept coming from knife-stabbed bodies


Blades cut palms from the palm-trees for


a chant for selfish prayer of the wildest Brutuses


Richards, with all the Henries in between


leader, a sociopath in the house of roses


to clothe himself in war to taste of blood by fire



Gold glorified in greed have baited the kings


to close their eyes


and descend into apathy’s underworld


This has to be the end

of attending to gloom


Attention, my soul, do not leave your gaiety’s sun unattended.



I am not some face boiling if you stretch out

like a kid, your tongue at me


Here is my skin thick to stand

jackals from your lips                                                                                                                                                                                          handsome replica


appliance  is for the sake of ameliorative mankind


living with love in my blood is enlivening,


living tenderly in the silence..


No decay will devour my summers’ bloom


Actually, the sun in its beams of glory

will resurrect midsummer dreams



I want to see you, you… morning house

You, dewy face

You, flowery eye


In fact, when I take off this night gown

like a daughter in obedience



A garden secure,

pleases me with the fragrance, that faylike spell



myself, I’m a mystic

who seeks the Heavenly


I should walk alone with a silent head

to a secluded wood

and dive into darkness

to rise up into light


Editor: Obinna Eruchie,


Late Night Poets/After Midnight – Rhythm and Rhyme

My poem was read on the After Midnight radio listener show – you can hear the poem read by myself as well as comments on the poem by fellow late-night poets at allpoetry

Thank you all, guys. You are awesome.

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