May 6, 2022
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.
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