Barrel of Life

 there is no redemption
the bottom is made of dregs
the worst of the worst 
the ruins, 
what can you salvage from ruins?
from the Chernobyl of life?
there isn't any redemption 
even though everything is all made up 

A Solo Congregation

 She spreads her leso on a raised ground

The field around scorched barren by the

unforgiving sun

slopes towards a river with stinking dark water – polluted

she begins her sermon

she is the sole congregant, perhaps a church will spring

there someday – her own church

the evidence is around

the whole place is surrounded by churches

she can smell god’s presence in that raised ground

 

she reads her bible like she would to a crowd

she reads it aloud

why wouldn’t she? You may ask

yet she is alone and there is no need for a mask

 

she has to read it loud

that’s why – loud is how churches run around

she could use a 5000000 watt sound system

if she liked it

or if she could afford

 

she then sings

she sings in English

then switches to Kikuyu

 

she prays,

she prays in English

then switches to kikuyu

she is not taking any chances

 

and a sad poet watched at a distance

wondering if she was praying for her successful children

to come to her

or to make that addict reform and become a person 

Wave of Confusion

 I am riding a wave of confusion, 

uncertainty, 

despair, 

dejection. 

I am listening to the paralyzing 

sounds in my head 

Telling me in incoherent and disjointed 

words 

that this thing - this very thing

could all be a big joke 

But I will keep doing it anyway 

everything will fall into place 

the fears, 

the voices 

and the storms they bring with them 

and then, with a sincere smile 

I will say, 'we are bosom buddies.'

Every Beginning

every beginning makes one confront 

the possibility that there is something good,

even minute,

in the obscure distant horizon 

and that possibility keeps many glued 

to mundane and silly hopes, 

hopes, that halfway through the horizon, 

come to a crushing halt, or 

end in some terrible form of defeat 

what are we, mere mortals, 

without the crushing hopes 

hopes that everything can crumble any minute 

it keeps us somehow alive, 

keeps our dreams in checks 

and guards our smiles from the coat of darkness 

when the crushing defeat knocks on the door, 

we take off our masks, 

and give the most diabolic smile ever 

because we knew the day would come 

It Could Be Better, But Doesn't Matter Anymore

it hits you, 

sometimes hard, other times mild, 

other times like a never ending torrent of hailstorms 

it's even harder to accept because

you been there before, 

and each time you promised yourself 

it could be better. 

or there was a better way, 

you are better than this!!! You bang your head against the wall 

But you've been here a thousand times, 

there seems to be no way out except the murky 

waters 

of resignation, 

Going with the flow, 

If the tides are good, then you are good

If the storms get you, then even better 

But you are better at not getting better 

it pains you not 

when you are hurtling down the road 

of bad decisions, 

because, because 

you can afford it. 

It could be better, 

It could be worse, 

It does not matter anymore

Meet Me

 Meet me by the bleak line 

between existence 

and nonexistence 

meet me on the blurry line

between sanity 

and insanity 

On these places, 

one is just glad to be alive 

even when they have died many times 

because dying without the actual act of death 

makes one come alive - at least one more time 

Fridays

Fridays, 

days gingerly stuck at the end of hard weeks, 

and look good, always dressed up 

like Fridays dress up

but Fridays don't always stay, 

she fleets by, like a bombardier over enemy territory 

or is Friday an enemy of other days?

Is Monday jealous that its hated unlike Friday?

Monday asks: why would a jobless person look 

forward to Friday? 

Why?

that's so unfair

but Friday does not care 

It goes on being Friday, 

and a people's favourite

because it suddenly seeks legal to partake 

the devil's piss