e-Paper Poetry of Vinx

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Monthly Archives: July 2016

Their Man

I know all ladies seek to find,
A man of iron steel who is fine
Clothed or naked, that’s a killer
Crawling and running faster than a cheetah….

A man who says love is blind
And gets them all fashioned in line
A man who sees them as butterfly is a beau
In and out, strong enough to make love a dew…

That man can be all she will ever need
But to what importance is a deadly creed
Or a sculpture that can never talk
Even when motorola makes it walk.

Area Boy

There’s a path partly low and high
Tough and soft to an hustling guy,
In an area built not only for, or by the rich,
He’s black and dark but for love shall bleach
He dresses to impress and at times seems childish
He isn’t an empty vessel or Einstein skull,
Not so awful and nor holy in all,
An area boy with greener of field
He might not be what she solely dream
But he can be all her soul shall ever need.

An Okiti Pigeon

Awful for worst, I gave the door a shove
Up in the sky, I sighted a white dove
Flying from the eye of Ubulu kingdom
Okiti precisely, “please don’t be dumb”
She corrects saying “even dove do cry”
Flapping across my hearts beneath where lies
The disputes of warm hatred and fainted lovelies…

That occupied the rooms meant for a mans ego
Frightened by no getaway nor an Eagle
She flew straight into my emotionless cove
Arhh!!! She cares, could this be love…?
Or the dreamt unity of a troubled kingdom
She has this sound, just like a fife and drum
As it plays, I see no impurities in her soul shingle…

Peace in love and more to come…
Not only in the sky should thou roam
Come into my abode and troubled home
Paddle me into an ocean from my lake
Take my heart and bake me a cake
Cook all soups on love recipe book
The face of fate, sings of a dove from above.

Crying Ceilings

There is a mark on the white ceiling
Crucifix shaped, dark brown and black, bleeding
Out, in form of a growing masquerade head,
Struggling to return against gravity’s lead.
Extending and growing the marks on the ceilings,
Remaining as leftover from scars of the rains
Soaked by the long ages from the light and heavy tears,
And then drops in particle onto the wet colorful tiles.

Absorbed for years: it took ages to see it coming
Suddenly it cries, did the roof hurt the ceiling?
No one understands the seasonal adjustments
Each ceiling go through when it rains or when it shines.
Yet you say I hurt your feelings
When you are the perforated roof
And my heart is the absorbing ceilings
While my brain is the tiles wet as a proof.

Love Not Violence

Note we ought to…
Fall then crawl and stand up too
Take one heart and make it two
Don’t get violent on the answers to who.
For most times when it’s true
We just fall and don’t pick who…
Love is peace and not easy to spoon
Yes, it’s not what we like it to be most often.
We wake up onto it like existence
Stop violence for we stand a chance
Even without begging for it
We are the hand and love is the glove fit
Stop violence, put the glove on,
Stop violence, be affectionate
Stop violence, spoon peace it’s safe and fun
Love maybe torn but better than a violent fate.

Her Hockey

There is something about her zit
It has this modishness that let’s me define it
For it’s not seen in a mere pimple,
Quite small, oval, pinkish and so cute.
Bulged wide with a nick of a dimple
Hers’ is from a wild wile rare stunner bite…

With a venom underneath her lulu print,
Radiating a beauty from the very soft zit.
Smelling similar to scents of the morning roses
Activating all inner reactive species
Addicted glamor and picturesqueness
All from the roses of a lovely love-bite.

It’s beyond the lustful term of love
It’s beyond the peace of the white dove
It’s beyond the blazing heat from a stove
It’s hers, lawful, true and dead on target
Yes Aye!! indubitably her hockey is a rare thing
For it’s not temporary but so everlasting.

Tales Of A Wife: She’s a land in the city

In a dream’s dream while dreaming
In another sweet dreaming dream,
She’s all the ices in the eyes seeing
Dreams and on a lip joyously scream.

A colorful butterfly tattooed pussycat
Pretty pose, a baby face looking so Innocent, small but best called a swirling flurry
Gust of wind whispers: “come and marry”.

She is like a child never born hungry
Nor thirsty but may seem needy yet don’t lack any
Don’t be scared to go for her least the dollar rises
For she’s an undiscovered land in the middle of a city.

Located far from places people lie and arise
No matter how expensive get her by your side
Even in slime don’t let it slide,
For in no distant time, she will be damn priceless.

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