And there is a God, Death and the Thighs of Young Women
If there is no blood, there is no life
If its not sweet, it’s no sin.
Gather the villagers, tonight we must drink from ancient gourds and speak of sacred things.
There is an ultimate climax that rocks the pant of every earthling, this marks the eve of his voyage into endlessness.
The boner breaks, the trees and weeds share pieces of your essence that escaped the mandibles of termites.
And they shall say;
“God is there in the deepest of roots where no wind dares to aerate
He sifts through layers of fetid putrefactions and collects what’s left of our souls and some detritus in the process”.
But do not be unduly electrified; the soul is just a lovechild of preachers and poets,
Reiterated a thousand times over until it wilts into a flat eternal song,
It rebirths itself in a river of blood and picks up a physiological role in the mind of almost every human.
Woe is me! The soul is not a conscience.
The woman was forged out of him, and for him? She became his sweetest sin.
These tales have no morals.
I remember living inside those dead days, when I numbed my way through a joyless 9 to 5
Struggled out of bed every morning to a place where I die a little at a time.
Everything irked me away; neon signs, Coca-Cola commercials, ice cream trucks, running dogs, or homeless lots begging for free drinks.
Apparently, they are all caught up in a hell a little cozier than mine.
These days, I wear the pants in my own misery
It doesn’t take too much to be free or happy (which in the end is almost the same thing).
Maybe I now skip meals and celebrate free drinks or would have to go a few days without light or gas.
Freedom is not overrated; it may just cost you an eye or a testicle or both.
Draw your straw, in which hell would you rather burn?
8 hours of pure misery or chillin’ in a cold breeze on park benches.
Anyways, I am a young man with bearable attitudes and a college degree.
There is a stage you reach, every lady you meet would seem quite attractive,
Don’t mistake this feeling for a drunken trip, it’s more of a hormonal drive,
Halting the cruise through your 20″s, until you get jammed up in this conventional paradigm
Stuck inside the singles lane, waiting on a woman to save you.
But she’s long gone, probably passed beneath you like a river.
This shall be your cross from now on, a stream of refined business lovers.
The good girls are already married or dead
With the rest? You will have to pay for your sins in cash, No cheques!
But when a tide rides deep, it forces its way out of the sea
So if she is going to live off our pockets, she must know how to love with her body.
I once met a lady and immediately decided to hook her in before she drops dead or worst; gets married.
Said I love her just like the American soldiers loved Saigon
Quick as a bullet, hard like granite, sharp as a blade and hot like fire
Then she asked “but how can you mention America and love in the same sentence?”
Oops, my bad.
Abejide Michael Ayodeji is a pharmacist, he resides in Abuja, Nigeria.
Facebook: Deji Bejide