Two Poems – Shittu Fowora

And this is not a joke

Wild wet Wednesday,
shadows play in the designs
and every filament felt
like a rag of noise.

That’s why the history of the dead
ought not die
with the last sigh
of the pulse less one, now at rest.

Impressions always sprout
from the lips of graveyards and grapevines
and from digging into nooks
of interjections and ribcages.

And the story of bleached- off white-skeletons is
a history of being eaten by soft earth;
all nutrients and intestines sucked out
clean of meanings;
then dispersed by fetid wind;
then planted by time,
then swamped and swarmed;
then exposed to them who,
having had their bones wrapped in meat,
still carry their gas-cages around and about
like cyborgs.

That’s why we laughed in hysterics
at the funeral procession where the two,
au naturel, in a nook,
jumped thighs.

And no, they were not roofless layabouts,
they were no loonies, or maybe they were.
But they were at it –at it –at it
on a super clean tombstone slab
in the museum of bones.

They were not loonies, or were they?
They plausibly ran short of ideas…and seeing
as many as carry their guess works to their graves,
thought to find it in fugue fragments,
figures and futures of fatigued calcium.



When magic happens

For all his years of experimenting with
the physics of electrostatics and dipoles
he’d never happened upon, or overheard
lodestones snuggled up, giggling deliriously
so much as letting ideas lam into a quiet July night.

But then, magic happens, only, he’s the rookie here,
the moon, age long witness to nightly art and
artifices of man is the peeper in this regard.

magic happens, when moments singe into
hours –sensations segue
into kinetics of wet.

say, prurient night densities flux the scenery
of magnets smacked by iron fillings;
of doughnuts powdered in grains of sugar
then confection rents the air like smoke.

Who thinks you cannot, from a distance perceive
a feast or smell intercourse
in the dark
even as, two bodies sugared
in the beach sand –under the open tent,
of Marrakech jigsaw a slow and
graceful dance ?




Shittu Fowora, a lifelong fan of history and the power of words has recently been motivated by the winsomeness of birds and the wisdom of ants. Having been stung more than twice while attempting to lounge in trees to write verses, he now spends more time around electronic gadgets. At other times,he’s in bed, not sleeping. His works have recently appeared in or forthcoming from Sentinel Quarterly Review,Monkeystarpress,Thewritemag, Helen Literary Magazine, DANSE MACABRE and

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