Thursday, April 13, 2017

Do Not Share The Panic

Do not create if the statement is not a prayer
Or the rage is not a swollen mouthful of morning
Do not embark on the march if the banner is burnt love
Or the mission is to turn out bowels with stolen deserts of ashes 

We looked forward to modern till we hit the bay of repetition
And worked our paddles to go back and not redo the hemorrhage
Do not share the panic when the folder is bursting of clamping clots
When the open vein junket of de-spirited spurts soil the mood

Do not pass around fliers to markets of mirages
Do not sacrifice eternity for 'close at hand'
Do not die to the music of dirty interludes
Do not exchange breathing space for belief in the maze 


writing takes us somewhere new

between wrists and rays that strike through

dreams find the heart before the doors batten down

the waters that course through our thoughts

we sail stories and skylines move

through unconfined paths and paths know passages 

- here lies the truth

Sunday, March 12, 2017

UNTITLED 'dawn song'

why does a poem decide to go untitled?
when does a poem go nameless?
where do poems spring into dawn songs?

sun's receptacle is half filled
sun sets itself up as a spectacle  
it is half short of full 
it is not empty 
it bears its truth 

jazz band blue curtains on eyes lift 
skies rip out their buttons
devirginized clouds hold wind and sing the storm 
shadows become kites that haunt the morn 
we were answers to the darkness that marked a gap for four left feet 
and memory digs buried bed sheets with patterns of black times new roman font text message poems 

massage the dawn with your dreamy mind
massage the dawn beetle-blown-tea-ready-hot-kettle orgasm
massage the dawn 
charcoal-red-blood-diamond nostalgia 
massage the dawn 
dawn song 
dawn dawn song song
dawn dawn dawn song song song 
dawn dawn dawn dawn song song song song 
grandmother of the song died before the mother of the poem was born 

that means there is something wrong somewhere 
surgery swords of sunlight will stir 
swizz blades of lightning from sides of swivel clouds will flare 
summertime hearts are satellites 
dew and tears mix and become fountains for finders keepers' umbrellas 
a sense of belonging beyond birth rites 

here home could be anything
anyone, anywhere despite
plans change..especially for strangers spilled into dawn
who once made do with little..made do with the dry chalk feel of cheese falling from field priest oh we church mice..
setting street lights for the elements searching sensitive contours of the heart  
confused about comfort zones 
panties and private poems fit around self esteem 
plans change but presence stays 
to massage the dome of dawn 

and I know this because we're hugging this very moment  
we're running chins in the valleys of necks, whispers twirl revolution ginger fingers find gang signs we've never known
but it was a distant relationship last week and at this very moment we are not together 
to massage the dawn 
dawn song 
dawn dawn song song
dawn dawn dawn song song song 
dawn dawn dawn dawn song song song song 
we're slamming strings of fingers linked into wings, statements become mad museums as we walk into each other like we've never and dawn settles

we look outside the blinds and each phallus prominence under the metropolitan sky values the callous clear sun dance over the dye of night which swallowed tired minds 
these tears were invented as an alternative source of salt to season food for thought for us fools 
paparazzi moon shed skin all night all blue like a..
bespectacled blame gaming barmaid bundled on booze bar stools in bamboo ballerina shoes 
bamboozled but belonging bent on breath 
living the lonely life of a nose bridge 
like falcon with head dug into arm pit under firm file of fine feathers forgetting the dream of flying after a toe twist 

i now know that adulthood is a collection of many childhoods 
as mistakes are meant to test order 
responsibility. response ability 
but memory digs buried dead seas 

as we measure timelines of rainbows from opposite ends of the universe 
as we massage the deep half empty half full dome with
dawn song 
dawn dawn song song
dawn dawn dawn song song song 
dawn dawn dawn dawn song song song song 

Sunday, October 23, 2016


where pessoas live in the guts of the streets
the warm windows find you
they see through you

                                                         like memories which make you brew smiles and morning cerveja
like smoke tangents intersecting away from clouded tabaco shops
                                                         like swapping perspectives worth potable intemporal souvenirs

lit intendente. hangover lisboa.
i switched my tv on last night
it is still warming up
reality show mechanic ballot tube
           spin roulette and same hands?
a poem is waiting to connect the next world to you
it's the reason the staircase that separates you from it
leads nowhere
 breathers behind lego globules of born again architecture
hear on radio each morning about the great 1755 earthquake
they plaster preservation and orgulho over birthrights to panic

less bicycles to suffer
plying more slopes, so
more tuk tuks sample
more tourist shoulders to count
more cranes hoisting lamps, laundry
under chin of castle with more trees
does that mean less oxygen? 

maybe the next toddling bus
chances on the theater of the barren sun
maybe they read between the lines of street graffiti
maybe they find some color
we polish over the grey

the kinglives elsewhere

                                       just a few trinkets of history growing in your modern brow
that swell to stardust kisses and old boon of moon
                                                                          next visit i'll welcome more of your green into my days
and judge not the tireless mad hearts
                                         who make                         you         so         awkward and cool! 

                                                                                                                      write(c)2016 kwame aidoo