Prince Sokari

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Prince Sokari
Monday 11 April 2022



There is an alien in the building

Looking lethargic and unimaginative

Curled up asleep, in the coziest part of the room

Hoping that it's persistent hostility will pay off in the end

It's all the art of life

There is a monk on the prowl

So uneasy

He should reappear in the morning

Father Akinfi, some teasingly called him Noah

Everything he had in two's, in his elusive state

He gave them all away

It's the art of life, he says

Because he had no ambition of his

Save the people's

And the extirpation of heresy

There is an imbecile about to be born

His regent popsy, though not a bad fellow

Ruled with imbecility as a trait

And loved piles of chopped tomatoes on toasted bread

Is it burger, is it bruschetta

Is it something birthed, writhed or twisted

Is this too, the art of life

Of pain, of limbs dreadfully convulsed

Of a face lacking expression

Of his mother, looking miserable

Wound and shattered

In flesh and in bone

Still, there is a midget ovulating

Not eggs

Just an overdose of confidence

A shy midget of indefinite age

Her name is Bridget, awkward

Sometimes eccentric

Someone who has over twenty pussy cats

They hunt rats for her for protein

Something like a throwback movie from the 60s

Call it mysterious

Call it an art of life

Whether goose, whether clawed, eggs will be hatched

So will seeds be sown, albeit on thorny grounds

Like presumptive heirs, these too will be conceived

And multiple genes, transferred

More still, somethings will never be the same

it's all the art of life. 

© uhurupoems2022™


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