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Poetry
Dami
Ajayi
Clinical Blues IV
Spilt
milk is milk
None.
The. Less
But what
is the worth
Of milk
that has lost its salt?
Wishful
Drinking
My milk
has spilled everywhere:
Lecture
theatres, Cadaver rooms
Hospital
wards, Operating rooms
Everywhere
Like
unbreakable plates,
Freebies
for six-year olds.
Improvisation is the new impoverishment
Nouns;
Close-Substitutes
Thesaurus; Alternative Forgone
Feel for
the nation’s thready pulse
In the
hand of a child with rice-and-water stool
Quiescence replaces hypovolemia
But
obviously still SHOCKs
Doctors
wield white ball cannula
Plastic
pistols don’t repair tissues
The
clinical truth is Post-Mortem
At least
we can lie that we tried.
The
ingénue and Her Lord
The next time
He slaps you
With his gift
Of glossolalia
Conveying to you
Gestures:
How he would shift
The very earth
On which you stand
To milk rocks
Of water like
Moses
With his staff
That orchestrates
a
Symphony of
facilities
In the wilderness
As his wand
Beats your
imagination
Black and blue,
Perhaps, perhaps
You would remember
The pangs and pain
and
Serial echoes of
previous
Desires and sated
passions
Lodged in the
wards of memory.
Amnesia is the
cure
To haunting pasts
Administer 2 mg
stat
Hit the reset
button
For novice
renewals
Nothing is new
Except Context
Has changed into a
jumpsuit
At the circus of
deception
To serenade you
with
Reedy renditions
and oily
Promises; he
bargains
For your mandate
And you acquiesce
To rape in a
desire
For the benefit of
old vistas
Amnesia is the
cure
Administer 2mg
stat.
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