His graven foot and disco pants sweep the floor with the gracefulness of a majesty. His name is in another speech but translates to- fair skinned, beauty of black, god of women.
--
I see his movement and the bulge in his creased trousers.
I see it just as well as the maiden that hawks dried fish.
The one with large light brown eyes and a tense vibration to her buttocks when she moves.
--
I was the street boy, born five years ago, laid in the gutters, procreated anywhere. Over the Niger maybe.
--
But i know i'm human, because i feel the heat rise within me as the fish lady raises her skirt to wipe her face.
I see him stare too; the god of women and i see her tinted teeth and rolling eyes settled on him, calling him, and revealing her brownish red unmentionables and sweaty thighs for one more unnecessary second.
--
I know the word his red lips and liquor bathed tongue will whisper to her when his white palms of soft lather that tipped me yesterday stylishly rub around her gingered waist as he pretends to be tasting fish.
--
I would also be there, watching from the shadows
Awaiting the first illumination that would shine on the watery snail between the fish girls leg
I would lick my lips over and over again and tap my ragged feet to the rhythm of her of gentle moans,
i would then prepare to be pulled out from my shadows by adult hands that would discover me in my skin chilling adventure,
And lips that would whisper- like father, like son.
Here are my eightlines for
Fatherless
enthusiastic shreds, prismatic dungeon
languid desires, allying with bitter lack,
thick pervs oozing out from young soul
a trench missing fillings of example from a chest that conceived his seed,
limitless cul-de-sacs cascading within themselves,
for liberty and not clinging love becomes a ambition
lifeless breaths, soulless clock, love not attained,
he's called the male life of a god, and he's a land with no sky
This one is a story personal to me and each line conveys a part of my life that resounds ever so strongly.
I'll need six lines to complete this. Read the narrative and see if you can connect into my mind. Let the fun begin.
Credits: First eight lines by eightlines @eightlines
Contribute as many lines as you can, i'll pick six lines that connect best and reference the contributors. Thanks
Note: eightlines is obsessed with asking for line contributions so check back on all my post to add lines.
Good poem. I Ain't really a poet, so I can't help with the remaining 6 lines
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Thanks, Doris Adioha
I get that you dont know much about poetry.
But if you had read my introductory post, you would know then that poetry is not more than a few words from someone that has connected into an imagination.
You can still give it a shot.
Maybe just one word is all i need to transform this work.
I believe you can.
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Well, here's my own line. I hope it connects with the rest of the lines.
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