My Roof, My Rules

Prince Sokari

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Prince Sokari

Monday 11 April 2022

THE ART OF LIFE

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.

Prince Sokari

Monday 11 April 2022

My Roof, My Rules

You once built me a castle

After the model of Windsor

But you gave me no rooms

Or bed on the shiny hardwood floors

You won’t let me be me

Or make me feel myself, Adaugo

Zipper fasteners, and undressing my pants

The pleasure of your embarrassments

The awkward moments in front of my colleagues

The taste of tears on my cheeks

A grin result of obedience

It’s your roof, your rules

Sadistic tendencies, love and affection?

Hidden in a sort of treasure hunt

Don’t search, all you’d find is abandonment and abuse

A violent sociopath, a control freak

One who held the title of Idi Amin

Instilling fluttering fear, and laid some ridiculous ground rules

With no empathy for his victim, the man or the woman

Will the resentments ever die

Hours of torture that went on for days

While I endure pain, and barnish the memories

The punches, the kicks, the smack on my face

You told me you were joking

And that it was between you and me

Or a way to enforce your rules

So long as I’m under your roof

Warped minds, filthy intentions

Showing teeth in anger, so vile and horrid

While barking and snarling orders like a dog

Rules mighty, roof toxic

Terror reign, a tyrant spouse, partners are victims

The calls for salvation descending

Your cry fainting, breath fading

Now you know you’re in a clash

Fist clenched and high

You know you’ve met your match

A group of adult boys, a bevy of ladies, a talon of a bird of prey

You know you’d be gone someday

But had rather not die today

All to live for and ever stay

Under my roof, my fadeless rules, you resilient

Why take residence, you’re home alone

With a sadist archer, with fiery arrows

Words like keys in hand

Freedom is a gate I can’t defend

Daggers to the heart, it’s just a start

Double edge blades, stab, pierce

To fatal attraction, another to fatality

Chapter on chapter, just follow

It’s all well noted, the utter shatter

Love, abusive friend with black eyes

And the picking up again

For I thought I was winning

It’s was supposed to be the last inning

I’ve found the keys

And everything that’s being missing

My soft heart trusting

My stupid mind thinking

That things would change here hither to

This may be the beginning before the end

Me tucked in bed, frozen in fear, safely hurting

Silenced, and admitting that it’s all coming back

Under this roof, these rules, no retort

In offerings of flower, it's all a decoy

These are my trophy, my crowns

And these too are flowers in my bouquet

But I’d make you feel like a lifeless objects

Empty threats, trepidation and hollowed nights

Ugh! The suffering, the violence

Smattering together

Like applause, it keeps growing

And on repeat, like a chorus

Maybe it’s me, maybe I’m cursed

My sweaty palms, I should loose myself

What must I offer in recompense

Our love child dead in my womb

And we sitting moron in this mire of blood

Longer than necessary, naked and vulnerable

Wet, aching, crutched with broken limbs

Nothing is enough to erase these scars of my skin

The trauma, the hostility, and all molestations

I’d rather not continue

Enduring, under your roof, by your rules.

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THE ART OF LIFE

My Roof, My Rules

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