< Issue 3 >
Morning Flames
by Osieka Alao
I. We Cry Blood
Loose holes of fire stream wildly
From crowded metal shells fluttering.
The despondent strands coil, trenched
Around the thorny spines of dark skies.
Oh, we cry blood.
Bones dine with the grains
On sinking beds of bloods.
Bloods dine with the barrels
Mounted on falling shoulders.
Oh, we cry blood.
The brawling buds bloom radiantly
Like orbits of lilies with glowing bulbs.
Obliterating tides invade nude neighbourhoods
And caress the stems of sleeping souls.
Oh, we cry blood.
Immersing tongues gulp mortal sheaths
With glistening claws, carnivorous carnival;
Hearts are uprooted from Earth’s girdle
And Planets trample skulls in quiet streets.
Oh, we cry blood.
II. Dead Men Alive
Heads straying from their bodies,
Whirling upheavals quiver the feet
To the shores of evil and embracing peril
Waxed by the guts of amorous lust.
Their eyes stray from our eyes
And collide on the grounds of rebellion,
When thirsty trumpets melt to sour tunes
On the tables that brew the pounds of feasts.
Paunchy bellies weave the charms of greed;
Accruing white notes in foreign oceans,
Neglecting the tufts of our drying streams
As their eyes stray from our eyes.
They loot the mounds of moons
When the night is asleep.
Their eyes stray from our eyes
And collide on the burial grounds.
Oh, we cry blood.
III. Falling Thunders
We cry for dead light-poles
And wail for the throes of potholes.
Parched throats faint to infinite seconds
As stars are raped to darkness.
Our growth flourishes blurrily
With the tenets of ignorance;
Absence of engraved sheets
Dawn under troops of dry trees;
With the futility of grey robes,
Wrinkled with the rains of tar
Threaded with yarns of fatal burns
And mutilation kisses sorest lips.
Empty shelves rise to peaks
Of dreary deaf clouds.
The fall of night deepens
As stars are raped to death.
Our children pave the naked streets
With bare tender feet and frayed coverings,
Orphans and beggars wade in starvation
And are abused by the monsters of doom.
Unripe fruits flood the deserted stalls
With the snuffles of rotten marrows
Heaped on the backs of skeletons
To the graveyard of arcades.
Rusted syringes lie fallow,
Crucified by the nails of bald wombs.
Pockets bloat with envelopes of stones
And the white robes crease in plight.
Hunger strikes with the swords of aliens
In the dusty creeks and forgotten ghettos.
Scrawny skeletons dance with thorny tears
Behind the cavalcade of a million masquerades.
Oh, we cry blood.
Who will awaken the dead youth?
With the piercing galaxies of revival,
Bolt her ribs with the sight of suns
And light her veins with bleeding paths.
Oh, we cry blood.
IV. Our Hands, Our Feet
We are building and dismantling,
We are gathering and scattering,
We are planting and uprooting,
We want life, but we still romance death.
Feet drifting from Heaven’s footpath
With ripped sockets and wrecked crania.
The din of Hell falls at the break of dawn
On foreheads without epitaphs of The Blood.
Who will save our souls?
From the showers of these plagues,
Burning balls roll around like hot air
Dried of bliss’s milk and bounty’s honey.
Who will save our breaths?
From these dead chords of love.
Who will save us?
From these morning flames.
Oh, we cry blood.
Morning Flames
by Osieka Alao
I. We Cry Blood
Loose holes of fire stream wildly
From crowded metal shells fluttering.
The despondent strands coil, trenched
Around the thorny spines of dark skies.
Oh, we cry blood.
Bones dine with the grains
On sinking beds of bloods.
Bloods dine with the barrels
Mounted on falling shoulders.
Oh, we cry blood.
The brawling buds bloom radiantly
Like orbits of lilies with glowing bulbs.
Obliterating tides invade nude neighbourhoods
And caress the stems of sleeping souls.
Oh, we cry blood.
Immersing tongues gulp mortal sheaths
With glistening claws, carnivorous carnival;
Hearts are uprooted from Earth’s girdle
And Planets trample skulls in quiet streets.
Oh, we cry blood.
II. Dead Men Alive
Heads straying from their bodies,
Whirling upheavals quiver the feet
To the shores of evil and embracing peril
Waxed by the guts of amorous lust.
Their eyes stray from our eyes
And collide on the grounds of rebellion,
When thirsty trumpets melt to sour tunes
On the tables that brew the pounds of feasts.
Paunchy bellies weave the charms of greed;
Accruing white notes in foreign oceans,
Neglecting the tufts of our drying streams
As their eyes stray from our eyes.
They loot the mounds of moons
When the night is asleep.
Their eyes stray from our eyes
And collide on the burial grounds.
Oh, we cry blood.
III. Falling Thunders
We cry for dead light-poles
And wail for the throes of potholes.
Parched throats faint to infinite seconds
As stars are raped to darkness.
Our growth flourishes blurrily
With the tenets of ignorance;
Absence of engraved sheets
Dawn under troops of dry trees;
With the futility of grey robes,
Wrinkled with the rains of tar
Threaded with yarns of fatal burns
And mutilation kisses sorest lips.
Empty shelves rise to peaks
Of dreary deaf clouds.
The fall of night deepens
As stars are raped to death.
Our children pave the naked streets
With bare tender feet and frayed coverings,
Orphans and beggars wade in starvation
And are abused by the monsters of doom.
Unripe fruits flood the deserted stalls
With the snuffles of rotten marrows
Heaped on the backs of skeletons
To the graveyard of arcades.
Rusted syringes lie fallow,
Crucified by the nails of bald wombs.
Pockets bloat with envelopes of stones
And the white robes crease in plight.
Hunger strikes with the swords of aliens
In the dusty creeks and forgotten ghettos.
Scrawny skeletons dance with thorny tears
Behind the cavalcade of a million masquerades.
Oh, we cry blood.
Who will awaken the dead youth?
With the piercing galaxies of revival,
Bolt her ribs with the sight of suns
And light her veins with bleeding paths.
Oh, we cry blood.
IV. Our Hands, Our Feet
We are building and dismantling,
We are gathering and scattering,
We are planting and uprooting,
We want life, but we still romance death.
Feet drifting from Heaven’s footpath
With ripped sockets and wrecked crania.
The din of Hell falls at the break of dawn
On foreheads without epitaphs of The Blood.
Who will save our souls?
From the showers of these plagues,
Burning balls roll around like hot air
Dried of bliss’s milk and bounty’s honey.
Who will save our breaths?
From these dead chords of love.
Who will save us?
From these morning flames.
Oh, we cry blood.
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