Therapy for Dark Torsos
i grew up to be sieged by the nothingness of mind.
like a spiegeleisen,
it takes multitudes of dust to submerge a homo sapiens to the farthest micron.
the least time passes the eyebrow & i watch Morpheus
dupe my grounds like a scammer.
in order not to plumage my body with doom
i will grease my skin with a BBQ oil
& transcribe the faces of the wind pasture
into a simmering metaphor capable of turning bodies to light.
it takes a permit from Mars to intertwine a malic with brimstone,
the stars schooling the knights on Herod lessons, a pedagogue
of shrapnel exploding the inner self—a burning forceps in my liver.
i swerve a panda of an incarcerate living &
ditch my head in a concussion of molality, an ocean spilled
for the pipeline streaming & conquering grief in the body.
it traps the reptile & I hook out from its system
like a line fishing a child from penury.
In Stress, I Welcome A Volcano In My Father’s Hut
The old man talks about how to prepare grief in a vast body
& smoke it to death
He says grief is a noun in transit.
death is another man sharing the same room with my father—
How possible is it to live with someone who is feared
by everyone including you? Which is to say in that room
there is only one man but two shadows crossing
Most of the time, I find my father lying sick on his chair bed.
I conjure the words of this poem with the smoke from my father’s hut
It is how you trace your route back to the shoreline of loss;
How I watched him bubble in the smoke
steaming to heaven…
I reckon something gothic hiding in my father’s voice,
I feel cold shrieking my fingernails, the air breathing its heaviness on me.
My voice shrouds the room
with a sand of fear as I bird hymns.
A boy has to lose his sun to darkness—this is more than offering a rib to God
my half is gone to the cloud & I sit by the sea waiting for rain.
Portrait of a Breathless Boy
Let me begin with a bruised body
that knows not how to supplicate
after he is tossed by the storm into
the bellied stream of
this skin is an appendage of limbos. Or a myth buried in God’s eye. This skin
is a bald forest that walks the bullied shores. I spread
this poem like butter / unto a tumbling body
that echoes from a moth /
& I munch it into a bitter slop—moth tired of watching
time translates into worms. Every night, I swallow a galaxy
stars—stars that only emit the beauty
I tweep these words like an acne
that crisp my face senseless. Face like a buron. Tell a boy to reminisce
a new hymn for morning birds.
I am not green. I do not rain—I mean
I am a faggot / &
I become an ocean in mother’s eye
it rains. Today,
I exhume this body from the blank. An
outburst. A screech
in gloom. Grief knows
no sadness. When I mention sadness, I mean
grief has no counterparts.
this poem is an orifice to velvets changing into endless tunnels / relics
tucking in its abdomen—
how do I manoeuvre from this microscopic scape
that only gifts migraine
as presents. I’ll memorize a boy like a lesson,
doing that will wind me through nostalgic chrysanthemums
to do away with me.
Asare Albert Kweku writing as K. Asare-Bediako, is an up and coming Ghanaian writer, teacher, coach, poet, philanthropist and a legal aspirant. He chose writing as a therapy to aid him breath away thoughts of his invisible father. He is a diverse writer of colour and mostly centres his works within the crannies of the African continent, with works published/ forthcoming in both local and international magazines.
He is the author of the micro-chapbook, PORTRAIT OF MANY COLOURS (Ghost City Press). He is either singing or learning song, sleeping and watching TV when he gets away from writing.
He tweets; @Asarewrites; Instagram: @asarewrites