The smell of your cologne sticks to my skin,
Warm and spicy,
Musty,
Smeared in with our sweat,
A reminder of our cravings last night.
We watched the sunrise tinge the white sheets yellow,
Cradled between your legs,
My back against your chest,
I touched the skin on your calves,
You made a joke about how the bones in my neck stick out,
Like the demons from horror movies,
We both laughed, and it all felt so familiar.
It was in this moment I realized,
That this was more than just cravings.
She sat at the roots of a sycamore tree,
Lay her sacred body across the plains at its feet
As she playfully nibbled at its fruit, beckoning me to come on closer.
I couldn’t help but marvel at the African goddess that lay before me,
From the tips of her bare feet toes all the way to the ends of her stubborn afro.
Her stubborn afro that resists the wind that tries to push past it,
I can’t help but think that her smile will be the birthplace of many a sleepless night.
A sparkle dances across her white piano keys teeth,
The aftermath of when the stars fell and settled themselves within her eyes that shine so bright,
So bright, I can almost taste the glory of her soul as it whispers sung poetry and drum beat lullabies to my aching heart.
My mind soars to distant galaxies where she and I gaze at the moon on the riverbank,
Making light work of childbirth as we give life to our offspring,
That we conceived that fateful afternoon, with tongues as quills that etched divine scriptures upon open-page hearts,
When she said, “Po honey on me,”
Under the heart-shaped eyes of a Sycamore Tree.
– Yaone W. J. Kgabi a.k.a. Po
This piece was inspired by the song “Sycamore Tree” by Tehlai X. You can listen to it here: https://soundcloud.com/risque_baroness/sycamore-tree-by-tamara
I couldn’t help myself,
Her caramel-colored coating, some might have called her a yellowbone,
You know #TeamLightskin,
I know I shouldn’t have, but all I needed was to taste her sinful paradise,
Take a peak beneath what looked like a tough coating,
But beneath my lips it fell away,
Like the leaves on a Sunday afternoon in autumn.
Autumn,
Often I think about your subtle flavors,
Flowing over me, not like water,
You were sticky,
Sweet like butterscotch, you hooked me onto your deadly insides,
I know you’re not good for me,
But I keep running back for more, and more, and more,
I consume and you tell me the next time will be better than before,
I fight myself, raging wars of desire,
I can’t let you take me higher,
Wait a minute, I can’t believe I wrote all of this over an Oatmeal Butterscotch cookie.
– Yaone W J Kgabi a.k.a. Po
Where have you gone?
I can’t seem to remember your number anymore,
That’s not a surprise because it seems you don’t call at all,
Lately, I’ve found myself decrepitly empty of feeling,
I can’t feel the cool of the water at my fingertips,
Just a bunch of expressionless faces,
Places of nothing,
Empty castles echoing post-revolution France.
I can’t seem to bring anything to the surface,
I’m unable to write, my heart, can’t bear the weight of my words,
My pen buckles and bends under the pressure of my needs,
The page an endless scrawl of graphite,
Sometimes I think maybe I just can’t do this writing thing,
My droopy, lazy wings would fall off under my command,
But my heart still years for it,
My body aches constantly,
I can’t keep up with this, can I?
– Yaone W. J. Kgabi a.k.a Po
Confusion,
He stood there,
Blood rushing from his face faster than electron particle physics,
A single tear racing him as he unbuttoned his shirt,
He studied her naked paradise from across the room,
Moving slowly towards him like a cobra enchanted by the ancient snake charmers,
Legs trembling, he fumbled with the succulent flesh between his hands,
She looked him in the eye and said;
“Make the most of it. You don’t get to do this again.”
Cosmic chaos.
E Pluribus Unum 