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Monthly Archives: September 2012

Me, A Song Written By God

More accurate than a chronograph,
Well analysed than a spectrograph
I’m a dancing sonogram
Gush! The sound is killing

Mimed by the Angels above,
I’m a song written by the hand of God,
Sang by his singing birds,
Life listens that includes you and you

Mind-blowing like deftly,
The errors in his write-up are defunct
Speakers boom ….
Gush! The lyrics is killing

Modal verbs, must, shall, will
These songs he writes about me
Are point-and-kill not a moleskin
Making mountains out of a molehill

Written by Onyeche Vincent E Onyeka
(C) 2012

White Cottons, Lining and nostrils

Hey, cheer up brother
Least it hears or sees
The dead has done
And seen it all
Stood in rain
Scotched by sun
The dead has shed
Blood and tears!!!

The one with white cottons,
Lining and nostrils
Knows nothing…
At all
Happening around
Though it might sense
The tears of a clown
‘cos no one knows

Yes… ’tis the time,
To cry and frown
‘cos tis a thing for us all
Whether or not on thin ice
Our life lies
As a stellar
On the inevitable
Dining table… Of deaths.

White cottons,
White linings
In both nostrils
Use a tissue
Don’t you worry ’bout the issue
This world is not ours
We all travellers
So cheer up sister…

(C) 2012
on 14th Sept 2012 @ Mr. Felix Aziken’s burial ceremony (Off Emefiele Street by the expressway Agbor.)


Cock: Cynthia

Oooo low class called Cynthia
Cheap pants over her,
Cheap heels under her
Shape well curved, tops just ok

Cynthia Cynthia!!!
Daydreaming of ever-after
Love made her hidden icy eyes
Bright as a touch-light,

Cynthia going out of her mind
Crazy in love, with who? her teacher
Old enough to be her father
Cynthia from the ghetto, got a dragon taste

Diamonds in dirt, or skirt
All he wish is to skip
Away from young hearted Cynthia
Who stands too close to him

Cynthia the Igbo girl
Poor english like your poor lip-gloss
Take not a foot to your teacher
Sexy you may talk but raspy he hears

Black-and-white copy of Rihanna
Listen to the ballad he sings
There is more to it

White-corneas widely open
Off-class daydreaming like Romeo
It takes two to whisper quietly

You selling your cheap-self cheaply
Ignoring the local brothers
Whose eyes catches you

Tightly embracing a total stranger
She’s good for a dear, If you ask me
But don’t dare:
Ask him.

Oooo local Cynthia
Chasing the air,
Chasing it so badly
She doesn’t get it

Screen ought to show
That the projector projects
She’s in love, if you ask me
Funny how love is,

Chasing one
Who chase another
Chase not.

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