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.
Write City Magazine is currently closed for poetry submissions. We are still accepting short stories, creative non-fiction, and flash. See submission guidelines.
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