LIKE + LIKE THEORY

“Like plus like is equal to love.”
At least that’s what he whispered into my ears.
A feather caressing the body of which it is attached to,
Warming it till it is all fuzzy and warm.
His like plus like theory took me through the week.

Next week, he gyrated against me. “This sexual dance,
It’s meant for the two of us. I like plus like you, you love me. It’s the same.
His member, clothed of course, brushed against my mound. My sweat glistering all over.
My heart racing at the teasing he offered me; his like plus like theory will take us far.

Third week, he pressed my nub.
Ding dong, went the bell, and wide open my legs went.
“It’s all part of the process honey. We are that 1% everyone envies. You are the one meant for me.”
During all his dropping of feathers against my skin, my core was throbbing.
He likes likes me; oh my, someone hold me!

Ten weeks later, blood spilled. Blood from the eyes, my garden, all spilled.
He breached my eden and tainted it with little mini-hims, all swimming in my pool.
I was in like plus like, love: It’s all the same haters.
Yes, the pain and red were all mixed, but all too soon diluted with his like plus like theory.
Then next day in the same week, my next blood spilled.
Clear blood,
But oh, the irony.
He couldn’t see through the salty pools to see just how much pain I felt.

Check! I heard the ding. I heard it!
I guess I was just another experiment. That’s why he said THEORY. ALWAYS THEORY.
It failed on me. Send in the next girl.
Same process, different eyes believing his fucking theory.
All just a theory. My garden now another used experiment, discarded among the rest.

A score in his black scientific notebook…

Volcano-inising

You know the earth’s natural way of cooling of??
Erupting. Through a volcano. Density and pressure.
Low density and high pressure. But, I’m not your science teacher.
So let’s cut through the bullshit allusion of science so I can speak.
Just like the earth, I’m ready to cool off. The natural way.
Through spewing of my magma of words. Hurry along, there’s no time.
Once I erupt, there’s no more prettiness.
I hate bitches. Oh wait, excuse my french. Female dogs I mean.
Running to you like they’re excited to see you, but gnawing on your back
When you’re blindsided. Maybe that’s why it’s a fact that,
Dog is man’s best friend; not a bitch.
I hate talkers. Modelling their talk is not their way of life.
Men expect Victoria Secret models but they receive …
I can’t even insult my own species, my own race. I am my own talker.
The country expects a revolutionary president but No, another …
Once again, I talk, but to model it, I cannot.
I hate admirers. Or the lack of them. Either way, both I hate.
You know how they are your number one fans??
But just like Ghanaians, after praising the almighty Gyan for his perfect bicycle kick,
Will go back shredding him mercilessly on television, radio and social media alike.
And then dance to “It’s Castro again oo, featuring Baby Jet!” when our stars are victorious.
But, to be honest, I just hate the medium. The medium that leads the living clay
to be as fake as they can. From cowries, to cedis, to dollars, to pounds.
Everyone wants an abundance of those. So bringing everyone down.
So that the meagre can be the new rich. So they can be the richest.
Note, I don’t have haters, you don’t. We just have people trying to climb up the ludo board.
Whilst planting snakes on this quartet-coloured board to hinder your progress.
To be honest, the medium may just be the root of all evil.
But aren’t we all just the devil himself? A part of his whole.

Haunted House

It seems my house never wants to be stained.
Shut your blinds, let darkness engulf it, so our white,
Can still be white in the dark. Purer than ever.
My house doesn’t want to be stained,
But its inverse chimney cannot help but inhale,
Inhale the negativity that attaches to little MINI-MEs,
And manifests into VILLAIN-ME.
My garage is not as restricted as I want it to be.
You know that “open and let all out” phenomenon.
Well, my garage door opens and by doing so, rush in
to fill the white with red passion of black negativity.
My house can no longer stand; at least for a little while.
Some R(econstruction) and R(enovation) is needed.
But during the R and R:
The cars that drove in, foreign ones I must point out,
The light that seeped through the transparent
windows, different, we must take note of, and
The air drawn in, cough-inducing you know,
All add up to make my house haunted.
Soon the hollow, empty noises you hear are the
dazed looks of drunkenness the MINI-MEs get, due to the
theoretical mass of a black hole my rooms are all made up of.
MINI-MEs with bloodshot eyes, the world’s effect on my house; haunted.
Close, open, and my house is lit. Everything opens for the unending cycle;
Light penetrating, air rushing in, cars upon cars parking.
The house will forever be haunted, built on bad bad deeds of the world.
Soon, the haunted house becomes what we had already envisioned some time past.
Weak, broken down. I cannot go on, my house cannot bring forth other generations.
Slowly, everything deteriorates;
Light turns dim and finally to nothing.
The chimneys clog over the period, the air reaches to a standstill.
And the garage is no longer useful, as its use has made it redundant.
And,
I’m just there. Dead and forgotten.
Let the world create a new haunted house.
Houses, beware. You just might be the next target!