The toilet paper
is both for shitting,
when quilted,
for soothing
the soft edges
of the shithole,
and for penning
pieces of princely
painterly poems…
it is also
all there is left
for the caged poet
when the tongue
is at its
sharpest best
and edge –
Soyinka,
your literary
twin-brother
knows this much;
the shuttle
in the crypt,
the crypt
in the shuttle
on a hanging day
in Biafra,
that shameless
Indigbo hoax
of severance
plighted on false
cultural distinction
and difference,
which is no
difference at all,
just the illusive
selfish ambition
of a gaggle
of half-baked
revolutionaries
in dreamdom,
Uncle Atukwei…
impassioned by
controversy
which was no
controversy
at all
but raw truth
fired up,
red-hot,
like a brander…
stolen identity,
disoriented
and upended
cultural values,
controversial only
when you are
a fugitive from
truth and
honesty –
dear predator,
does my presence
stampede
your restless
soul,
who have no soul
at all,
’cause you cannot
think
beyond your
guts –
dear predator,
does my presence
poke your eyes
blind
with the garish rays
of the sun –
bear it
like the man
you need
to become,
like the man
you have yet
to become,
like the man
you will never
become –
I came to grim
knowledge
of your treachery
awhile back;
it was only
a matter of time
before I exposed
your maggot-ridden
butts –
you may have
my body
in your grips,
but my soul
soars high above
your ken –
1/10/14