Poetry & Prose : SOUND OF THE WILD DOG


This prowler of the desert sun
carnal like a broken papaya
fights the shadow of the horizon;
flails it in the sand like ginger grass
watches as the moon feints the day
with a tarred cassock and the sibilants
of birdsong and brooding growl of hens,
ears and nose zoned like
arrowheads behind a shield,
rotten in spirit and ambition
like the reflexive curl of a snake.

Who told you to make love not sex?

This prowler of shadowville
cursing this tallysome sun
to bend over and be done
then cast aside for the
hooves of the night to trample;
seething now as the rustle
rises to the surface like heartbeats;
here and there the dazzling side of impala -
There's a reason behind every
flinch in these sweltering ashes:
the blue silhouettes of snakes,
hunger for a distant hole,
the yellow fear of innocents
(his kind of prey); or a soulful quest
to feed a child before the chill of dawn

Who told you to cry when hungry?

This prowler of faked bravery
hankering for wet dewlaps
and heavy gonads
that outsize the jaws;
he slavers like a broken sewer
churning the acid and turgid smoke
in his indigo gut where
a harnessed bravado waits
like the twang of muscle. Even
The ghosts of the fallen taunt his
mind like fillets of fat - he can't see
the frightening aura of lions anymore -
so he rears up on his forelegs
and pisses in the eye of destiny

Who told you to caress yourself?

By Ishmael Fiifi Annobil ( 24 June 2005 / 1.59am )

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