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  

Sunday, October 09, 2016

one for haiti

caribbean beauty eye of ghostly starfish hooked- 
an impaired island disk of forever 
pellucid punctures of plastered plantation paths of pelted african poetry from past still present
your heart is the humble plenary gift healing from hundred quakes 
as vultures dock under your epidermis contaminating your intelligence
deity dancing in the dark
dying to resuscitate your divine 
dangling your devout clasp 
as red cross crucifies and watches you resurrect losing parts of your living
lonely haiti
loving haiti
laboring haiti
torturous turbines of death spin hurricanes through your afro and watch gash green graphs tabulate the death tolls
deaf at dinner between destructive nature and demonic dentures of colonial canines 
asphyxiating ashes on pedestals
shoe-less port au-prince plagued on pencil toes
priceless mermaid haiti with hurt-sponged soul hugged by sun not in moon's mild reach 
in a lambaste landfall of aborted futures 
bound for breathless beach 
flailing flattened homes pummeling bones into interjections 
haunted haiti
hung hungry haiti
hope-hindered haiti
cholera colored chromosomes 
amidst aids and aid unfair estranged
melanin prose of cornered creoles
with voodoo dolls pinned into moody walls
wounded as you breastfeed millions
single mother 
your kind exists everywhere  
with hearts free to feel soothed nowhere 
healing with you 

See original image

Friday, October 07, 2016


i prefer to live in this imaginary city where homelessness is not a sin
because out here a pale boy plasters himself on the sidewalk 
begging for another life 
with his limbs stretching out the hunger from his bowels and you smell hell breathe from his intestines
a dry poster almost stripped off by hangover hands
and one floor just above his stare
a century old pair of knuckles droop into the streets and fling grains to a curious set of pigeons 
crumbles fall into the orbits of his eyes, this young man
a yarn soaked in pus and suicidal throes of pumped voices evoking lumps of toxins 
you taste hopeless vomit from his empty options
his fingertips- the cuspidate forms of mountaintops, his belly- the voluminous valleys 
but nature around him is not for the innocent and righteous
there in the lonesome farmiliar gorge-
a psychological gymnasium with urban tower blocks breaking shoulder blades
nose tickling the floor 
groped with smoke with a candid feel as if joseph stiglitz echoed his idea about saving the planet here
he reads me the arcane trade laws negotiating pain
exclaims that a newspaper spread covers his head but in the newspapers his painful story is not shared
lugging emotional bags of grafted memory
this stain of dying community-
and his sister- almost photocopies herself from him and creeps out from his slippery shadow 
with elephantine legs and a special kind of madness
her heart whispers to me: 
"when we have no more power over the issue than we have issues over power, we lose the power"
she says to me; 
"the world is silent"
but it feels noisy all around me and the irony lies in how all our souls are invaded by this quiet violence
looking for a loud license to clog the undertakers of our conscience
onlookers are divided over visual pain killers
as these kids endure persistent police diagnosis and doctors tazing with cold stethoscopes
when all they need is a taste of the normal life 
the same poverty the system creates scares them 
their frizzled hair and rotten teeth scare them
their rumble under rum turns out their guts
the fingers numb, demeanor strung skunk sunk scares them
in the corridor bound with six feet tape and basement rape
caged in cries as tombstones replace neck stones
descendants of chains and pendants i greet you
he says his name is smith hers is wesson
they grow into guns because that's the only shot they've had
their parents od'ed because government proceeds only afforded them rooms made of drugs

what do you see when you look into a homeless person's face?
a nomad? the nickel in your pocket? a psych ward? a mole? an abandoned human?
nonetheless, survivors of the streets these be 
maybe you've seen their voices haunt each leftover space?

Monday, August 08, 2016

uncertain certainties I

once more
buries itself under my baggy eyelids
as fatigue fornicates with its soft dying glow like a fine speck of firefly with frowned fibres losing floss

finally knocking on the door of its own tomb
the thumps of hunger pangs regurgitate 

like slums dealt with the cascade of floods 

or pungency of polythene choked fumes
i'm asking myself questions 

which become answers in disguise because 

i've danced between god and the devil so long 

i need to let it sink in that these floors are paved from rhetorics

i'm more than me
especially when i write myself free
so i wrote a will to the stars 

to cremate my ash and precipitate away these scars

you could easily see that's all i've known
i'm ungloved palms with red charcoal and an ear of corn
i babysit pain and watch it transform
in due time

vintage : bonds

ascending from the future
   rooted memory from past
      like stealthy seedling of sun
         performing social sutures 

Monday, August 01, 2016

backstreet lecture

i couldn't discharge my eyes off him with ease
young boy breathing his pain 
into the world of his unfurling palms 
craving for coins on this corner 
ajar for the moving or well dead
soft yarn soaked in suicidal throes of addiction
bedrock blasting
a continent of pumped voices unshut with toxins
his smile met the flat mountaintops
his belly the desiring valleys
transplant from the alleys groped with marijuana dust
and a candid feel as if joseph stiglitz echoed his idea about saving the world here
he read me the arcane trade laws negotiating paroxysm
from a mind with stains of scant community 
power over issues with issues over power
and a special kind of madness
he said the times broke out of arid silence with the license to clog the conscience
i'm the nobel prize holder for bootlegged comfort 
legging it in other people's boots 
i'm cocaine capitalism
christian parenti's documents typed out on doormats of chaos 
a typewriter in subtle exile
or keypad in heat stress
and the orgasm of small farms with finger fishes fried forgotten things for dishes
i'm the reason mcdonalds will sue you next for using a mc
adam's apple never fell far from the tree where eves saw i
and this little profound ghost of a boy
before i retire would probably end up under the tires 
of secret society masked vigilantes
or worn over the attires in west africa and labeled vlisco
traded platinum like cisqo from dutch kinfolk
overtimed in indonesia like juveniles with bronx endo 
while labeled 'tribal' or something close to 'traditional'
tomorrow i'll still find him hangover with ancient music tucked away
vomiting a dream 
and sleeping in it

(c) kwame write aidoo [written and read on the night of saturday july 30th, 2016 at 32 rue de la mare at an event hosted by will cox]

understood into two

i sparked a campfire in my head
to keep warm the pieces of the lust
after you burned yourself
into my mind music became revolution became culture became rhythm became music i've masturbated songs into silhouettes of mornings
caught in nets of clouds webbed out of veins
and waiting trees
philosophers have bathed speculations into pools of illusions charlatans have twisted them into deceit
generations have split from these splinters
when i found you
you found me
i'm the boreal bald mushroom waiting to be the orchid
the tide thumping against slippery shore longed for by poor kids a keen traffic light dancing in dream of becoming the ride
so the red wont stop and yellow becomes pulsating sleepless moon
and green installs itself as a flag for us loons
you're the gunpowder after the war showers sunflower kissed briskly at sidewalk
by rickety bus hyped for that fuel
there's a thin line between love and obsession
and i've known to grow it so well i could use it as a necklace we shall now
for the sake of the double-minded
stir into the sun our own entendre

(c) kwame write aidoo [written and read on the night of saturday july 30th, 2016 at 32 rue de la mare at an event hosted by will cox]

Friday, June 17, 2016

old kobby. spins

waiting in line to buy a shot of something hot
to numb the sociable cells of his stomach
old kobby taps his feet and deepens his grin.
he embeds the exact picture of the ball of fufu he'd prepared at home
zooming in and out in his head.
today is just like every other sunday
but today, he grows deservingly impatient,
once again
at yaa maame's blue kiosk
yaa maame is away.
her daughter is on vacation and on the job.
it's been almost twenty minutes since he arrived
the fractions of time come clothed in years
as the stench of stale alcohol invades and almost colonizes his lungs.

the sun in his face finds solace. he does otherwise
more years speed by
as he finally sits with his fourth glass of akpeteshie
and witnesses sunshine colour itself dark orange
and 'pepperfootedly' yellows into moon.
he taps the imaginary watch on his left wrist
and snaps out of the momentary trance
when a warm zephyr of voice knocks at his ears
"old sweet kobby, make we go do one. I no go charge you plenty."
wearing little black lace, tall boots, long red nails fencing a glass full,
this lady walks over, with a strut that shows her feet knows night.

old kobby looks away,
rather cultivating attention in the two chatterboxed men beside him playing checkers
they were engaged in the moment like sweltering security for vote counts, 
almost leaning into the game 
accommodated generously centimetres away from the scanty shade. 
the lady conveys her heavy set breasts which breathe endlessly like caterpillar flesh
right into old kobby's face
he almost gives up to ghost back unto the sidewalk that leads home
but is pinned down like an anthropologist's specimen 
"you know say old man no go last pass 5 minutes sef."
old kobby spins into the wheel to lose some fortune for some bliss
"I get fufu for house. mek we go?"
they pick themselves up and vanish into the night
their shadows become gangrene memory in the distance
each one an untameable kite

Wednesday, May 11, 2016

to measure a moment

how does a gasp taste on the horny blade of winds

how do we sum up the span of a sizzling shudder along the spine
it's certainly not vacuum that collects itself between the throat and the ribs
neither is there a void between a randy femur and the wrists
make that tangent between saturn and your lips
how does love conceal itself, so, behind an ache
does twinge of the buzz owl itself in the crown of a gape

riot a story summarized within the span of a swift tidal wave

write with your bare hands 
or feet
or voice
about that (wo)man who cut the right nip between a groan and a hiss

i'm trying to find truth in a screaming whisper

hope in a burning kiss

Wednesday, April 27, 2016


knowing could be a canker sometimes
we want to soak in every detail that walked and stiffened
till our tissues dehydrate losing substance to tears
or worse, to fears
we want to know
we want to hurt our core more
we need to know

what has love got to do with not knowing?
the cigarette smoke thick in your coat that escorted you home
last night, i directed the moon to you
but you, my love, already was aglow
with the lipstick streak street lit shoulder high lambent lobbed
why do we memorize so well these foul play forlorn blues?
how you touch so well
how your fingers glide like gazelles
you must have been with hundreds before me
i taste their fingerprints on every lip I've clinched

reflecting wears the kismet cunning to deviate us
i watched you accurately bend a smile over
break its spine into a cranky old wretch
once i heard, that looking back too long could be a thief
could be salt melting for untamed fire's cuddles

too many page flicks of emotions
build up like a fat layer under your skin,
i've known you better at night
obese with hurt
choking on too many chalked chapters
where dawn is made of thoughts batted around
we need to catch each one and know them

or let the vultures eat the carcasses of our past
laying naked by the window, under smoke of stars
groping outskirts of shadows
wetting fingers in the juice of the present
tomorrow, the sun will sit between the trees of my beard and the fences of your ribs

i know
in the presence of us
there's more to know
between two pairs of eyes
marching gracefully into each other

Monday, April 11, 2016


my toes bleed endlessly after walking too many miles trying to make it back to your heart, presently hobbling around the door knob of "could we be together again?"
night calls day a snob, can't seem to pin out on the calendar the last time light fed up the tunnels of my heart..
taken aback, my back is my face in the morning how I focus on a past that has become a frozen thought..
i wish into shooting stars
i sing into dissolving moons
i take pictures of puddles I find collected in street asphalt crevices
to archive my reflections of the times
i'm looking for something to believe in
pushing carts at the supermarket is what I do to pastime now, hoping you'd call back this very minute and say 'oh you know what, I never left, you fucking kidding me? when I said 'bye' I actually meant 'buy''
the cervix of my quest keeps still births of conundrums
can i again find my way home?
can we again put together the walls that surrounded us and soft furniture of trust broken now like the conversation..
can we settle into two parts that ache in the bone to be one?
let the sinks shrink out where the weather mists
patching brick by brick, stacking sovereignty like vertebrae, let the chimney smoke once more,
send morse codes to space, let's invest in cosmic love- geometry of stars, mended lights, blended sights
philosophy of melody
when the oceans leave afros of bubbles ashore
i'm reminded of the globes of worlds we dipped our bare feet in and surfed into sunlight
now as each bubble bursts, each stretch is a mark that cuts my body into parts, splitting is not the way out especially when it goes to divide and not to share
my insight is left bare, my insides are desert spaces for rent
but only cobwebs fill these yawns of rooms
spiderlegs of saccharine memory found exhibition halls and made dark art farms of fungus filled
i'm not me most of the time
strangers taste smiles on my face but mostly i'm lying
this is not a call for a revolution or a tall order for a change in the constitution
this is a tear in a heart
a shift in a spine
a bookshelf which can't boast of bookmarks and touchy hands
this is a hum to revive, launch and ride the glossy waves
for when was pain ever a metaphor for freedom?