Upon the Still Waters of the Niger, I Wrote This
i am trapped in an influx of gaseous waters
a rhythmic trombone writhes me into transparency
& glow is a myth, so is the twisted birth of trees
or leaves― arcaded moments before i touch the floor
—a rust, a sheep-load of goats
my veiny palms, bleeding a glossy Niger, hoping
they touch shore in rodent advance
& retreat like an evening sun― going down big
because, slippery depths aren’t homes
but graves. even, Anatomy exaggerates microbes
trapping my gaze on bigger things
& i am but an ocean dream, trapped in a river mind
flowing silky, with homeless accommodation & island will
I Talk of Waters
magma concerns, burst through
broken thighs with lyrical flow, telling
about staple emotions, and it is this
road I choose to take, an alley
in veins, blood-thicker paths
connecting the watery night with
sinking shadows & stitched souls, striding.
mutilated pathways
carrying brown posy gutters— wet feet
dripping malty blood
every step, a palms leap through wooly water
muddy destinations, amputated places.
On Redundancy or How I Grew To This
my life glides on plain mountains like
a man fainting half-way into discovering
his shadow’s height or how far his
darkness can spill on the floor each custard morning,
singing wolf & shape shifting clouds
hanging on lips or how he says
“i can handle this,” without
anything plastic or clay to hold on to
in a brown dream sending his mind
into epileptic motions,
of broken crosses, leaking through his
eyes— a liquid vision of drowning
in a tilted dream filled with
sparkling ravens or his 3D shadow.
Ebuka Evans is a writer from Nigeria. He is currently in pursuit of a B.A. in English and Literature at the University of Nigeria, Nsukka. His works have appeared on Our Life Logs (a blog that collects real life stories of real people) and Ngiga Review.
