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SPIRITUAL SONGS (Trilogy) | Adeniran Joseph (Prince Joe)

TRILOGY
SPIRITUAL SONGS:


OUT OF BOUND:

[For people living out of revelation]

This world is coming to an end, soon;
Just watch how it will cloud your 
eyes into a dirge - song —
& how it could fall on your chest 
like a wall broken for autumn.
Because soon:
you will feel not your body again,
You will run into houses of no windows, 
& all you could find is a symbol of darkness,
Speaking to you in a white language —
But beware, you cannot understand the white language;
When your brain is off from your head. 
Eyes would be opened wider,
than the socket of a god.
You will be taught how to wear pain
 & drink your sisterhood blood too,
Everything would become too busy to control, 
Because this is not the normal sense of life.
Look, that day, a man will taste your body,
If you resist to poison your eyes
 like twin shadows —
Or shades of destruction;
Blades blasted on your funeral.
Your poem would become too wet to read again,
Your home would carry the body of a lion,
When thousand of legs clash
 with another blockbuster;
After painting your emotions with an unknown ink.
My pastor said, that time; 
fire would stand like a body,
Burning everybody's favorite things
 like nobody ever existed,
But it won't burn some body,
Not for refuge to stretch through
But to give an example of some — living darkness,
Spreading their legs across the world's chest.
So listen, when your body tells you to admit today's worries 
& behind the picture of a stolen flower 
Made from fire & dirty souls of darkness 
Because soon, this world would be out of bound
For little boys & girls to crawl into.

••


SPIROGYRA:


Inside our home are running birds 
Calling themselves names inform of imageries.
But we were diverted by the sound of the gun 
Split into crimson of national park service
Where nothing was leading us home 
Like the beat in our hearts sounding raindrops.
We have many seasons to deliver from:
— Season where water carries your eyes 
Into the storm of a beautiful ghost town.
— Season where your hands are tools to 
Wake a boy from his father's clothe.
— Season where you lay your body on a role
Of fine ashes spreading in dark rooms.
— Season where your emotions cut into
Pieces of memories & fluid of beers.
— Season where nothing comes out like laughter
but walking loneliness of fearful papers. 
At a time, something may cause you pains
That could lead your eyes into a blind woman's.
But don't be afraid, your body is different from the wind
Only when you find yourself a better road to cry 
Because, some roads are faces with deep eyes;
They don't listen to cracky bottles of songs,
When their bodies can't hold a wait of liquor.
In our stores, we have different boys dangling 
On air conditioners to hold life in small amount,
Forgetting that the condition of life is not in 
Any amount you can buy with small hold.
Look into the arms of these words;
Something is missing inbetween the body,
Because they have not fall on you these days.
Don't doubt your mind by running for morrow's race;
Without a coma after fooling your name in the lubricant of death.

•••


WHITE HOUSE:


This home is for boys falling into prayers 
Because they are sands of the museum
Decorated for liter tips of sun smiles.
We are walking with another home again, 
Call us back after the lose of our legs
That we are not ready to die twice 
Like the spit of my father
Which runs into wrong directions.
I was told when we count our houses 
With the last debt sigh, we became stone statues breathing like dead gods
With sun shades & sorry laughter. 
How do we break home into shards?
Or paint the rooms into colours of silence?
I don't think home lives in waters of love, 
It lives in silent papers & appealing voices 
Where shadows are empty reflection 
Copying the body in another boy's eyes.
There's a way we should dig our problems,
After becoming too weak to cry in pains:
— we let our smiles crown our efforts 
— We share more lights to seeing things 
— We calculate the picture of porn poems 
— We voice out tragedy in a broken rhythm
Like we call god's name into holy books.


ABOUT THE AUTHOR 





ADENIRAN JOSEPH, also known as Prince Joe, is a  poet, writer and a critic. His works has appeared in different blogs, sites and anthologies.

He writes from the depth of a dying ocean to paint the colour of everything he sees like the world is that too beautiful to behold. He lives and writes from Ibadan.




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For Ikeoluwa.

I have sailed in the ocean — on
your body's warm drenched spot axis,
and i have felt the touch of your
freezing burning hands and cold words:
you said some soft words gently in
my ear on a cold night. and my
body is a tree, it rustles
when winds beat. winds like your mutters.

I have a whirling desire
that we are over the 9th edge;
grabbing, rocking, licking, tasting —
and the passion flows 'n' action shows.
your whole body defines a lot
even when i see nothing but
the voluptuous pillows of a
tired bed, calling me to sleep.

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like a running fire. and i'm
burning coldly on a meet with
your whitish round thorax muscle.
glorious! your body is a bike
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