Burns Are Language In My Dreams

By Nnadi Samuel

sucker for penance. ash gullible,

still no wood depletes to have me in secular chaffs.

I snuff all my heap from bed, pilling them into a pharmacy of jawline.

ghastly as a shelf stripped of ethanol, I clot undone— this gorged spirited self.


but, lent brings more preference to art up slant, & I'm hand trailed.

the liquid cross & oval drip skewed as though for thirst,

I squeeze my creative face to events of oil slides,

how thoughts of sticking my tongue eludes me.


was once armed to teeth, thoroughly equipped with gutter slangs & sign languages.

still, I'm awkward. every phrase I've learnt relying on hand shapes;

losed & carefully exempted like forgetful functors.


a theorem my lips proves,

mouthing unthoughtful conjectures in same breath I leap into conclusion

in all my judgement of this world.

the skill I don't get over when I word important with silence & puffed cheeks.


I'm some grieving aircraft soon as my tongue allows red,

crazed with Injuries. gealed & crashworthy.


I acquaint my weather eye with rubbles for harm sake.

for anesthesia of the down trodden— since shoots wear our lethal steps to sprouting.

I reach for near stems; hands gloved in sportsmanship.

a hound, pestling the pristine lawn.

children till their buried toys & mud-dialect. mothers eye speak.

lizards nod all their tongue secret.

I too have a blood language in subdued sone & decibels.


probe me for fun facts.

observe I take kindly to mouthwash, where gas by way of squiggle implode my letters.

hazards we craved; swelling our different trachea for tucked sound.


the serendipity of filling more of myself than my gas cylinders,

without knowing what blue matchmakes noise.