Do i have your back?
There are no better ways,
To retain water, on the back of crabs:
So, i am making signature, of your word.
Stay on, I know you did say,
There is no giving up just yet.
I know I am somehow – a catastrophe.
Knowing how to fry an arse,
Put’s one over the burners.
At least, that’s one crazy way
To be mauled, after a graceless fall.
So, it’s been time, for a pound of flesh.
Eddie Awusi is a Nigerian writer of Isoko extraction. He graduated from the prestigious Delta state university, Abraka in 2007, where, he got a Bachelor of Arts degree in English and Literature. He has been published in Dissident Voice, The Australian Times, Tuck Magazine and other numerous magazines and anthologies. The pen and paper; are his playmates.
She took hours
to gather herself
for the wedding;
infused a bottle
of L’Oreal Paris to rinse
away the gray
and curling her now
jet black hair;
pencilled in some eye liner,
applied carefully measured
brushstrokes of concealer & blush,
before completing the ritual
with watermelon pink lipstick
sealed in wet-n-wild lip gloss.
And even though
she is fully aware
of my preference
for au naturel.
she asked how she looked.
just like always.
You look beautiful.”
The women worked
silently in the dark
the soldiers were coming
leaving the snake
a reed boat on the river
stones were hiding the sun,
snakes grew closer,
the soldiers searched
the whole area,
a huge cloud of dust
no lights in the desert
crying is silent
the sacred mountain
wind grew stronger
snake was already in the wood
the stone statue
at the bottom of the ocean
a sign in the desert
The wind is stronger
In sacred mountain.
Didn’t you find it remotely weird?
Slightly odd even, that there’s a wooden chair
all out of place and by its lonesome,
sitting with its back to the wall?
Whatcha mean, you just thought
that someone had momentarily left it there?
Gone off for a cup of Rosie Lee
and a fag-break, I suppose,
after carrying the one chair
halfway across a yard… who does that, eh?
Stop saying ‘Well, There Was No One About’
in that whiny fucking voice of yours.
Of course, there was no cunt about…
in between the sneaky little fucker
who placed it there
and the three ‘Lags’ who then bolted
full-pelt at it and used it as a springboard.
The dogs had better catch ‘em, son,
or the Guvnor’s gonna want your balls on a platter.
Use your brain, you fucking numpty,
I’ve seen them scrambling up
cracked and crumbling brickwork
like tattooed fucking monkey-rats.
Nothing rests against that wall… ever!
Not a broom handle or rubbish bin…
if there’s so much as an upturned bucket
unaccounted for in this bastard yard
I want to hear about it, Ok, sun-fucking-shine!
He auditioned all the boys
and girls, personal, in his office,
one on one.
Spread the rumor that if his casting
couch had kept a diary it would
have made Casanova blush.
Would have revealed detailed
information The Hite Report,
Kinsey and Masters and Johnson
Claimed all the behind the scenes
work had made him old before
his time, and that might have been true,
in a way, if all the communicable
diseases he had caught and the immunity
to the miracle drugs that were required
to cure them, counted as adding rings
to the tree.
Said he had an eye for talent and
a gift for nurturing it, with a straight
face , when everyone knew it was more
of a, “you do something for me and I’ll
do something for you,” kind of arrangement.
Liked to proclaim that his work was
essentially thankless, foreswearing
personal gain and glory, while compiling
the kind of portfolio that made Wall
Street players envious.
“It was all about the Art, the theater
and the people that made it happen,”
was his standard interview line which
meant, “As long as it benefits me in
the long run.”
Might even have convinced himself that
all the lies he told were the truth,
which it may have been, in a way,
the way good propaganda has an element
of reality, the way self congratulation may
be seen as modesty, to the recipient, but
seen as a mockery of the truth by everyone else.