OSIRO MIZPAH UNUEVHO – Finding Shangri-La in Alleydom

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Finding Shangri-La in Alleydom


In the small escape of evening light,

Technicolour life swings on for perpetuity;

None paying inspection to us

And forgotten, bland beggars as soon as passed;

Moving, running, in cracked meters

Down and up the opposing streets and road cross-locked at the middle by an imposing idol—

It is an intersection,

The imposing idol

The object circuit that binds the streets and road,

Dyed with a dozen contentious ideas,

Each burning like an African Moon:

Scepticism, Christian teeth inside a face, a washing ape squeezing soap suds into the negro grooves of his shoulders; the label of the broken soap pack says “squeezing embryonic history”-

Some soul drew an ant race competition, crowded information on a restaurant of wrinkled paint— uncertainty has become the light of the lamb, and wrote politics and God are losers; he loves his thoughts…the peace…

I think I do…



I have grown weary of interpreting God’s chess moves,                                                                                                                     after the blinding checkmate,

And I struggle to hold the tweaking light, and the maps of heaven between the tents of my temples,

Against the rats alley I try to dream in;

A high Capital of leaning houses and noise crossing each other,

hiding life and death crossing each other and dreams and hate

and love and fermenting theories with moustaches like limping flags from hostilities crossing each other

A Bombay of inflation’s sour milk, every day’s corpses on the sandy pavements crossing each other,

Barking dogs (that I have damned) and practical cats, rigid girl and boy souls with stiff gestures and merchandises vying for attention

Men whose railway lines have pilgrimage to the south

Where vultures take report to gods,

A Eureka State of free thinkers,

A jumbled vomit of enormous black world

Beating the doors of my sewn skull.


I try to hold the maps between the webs of rich dreams;

Against the cold that has curled down and up under the dome of burned sky and exhausts; no moon

And swallowed the garbage cans and all their guts,

Filled with broken cloth threads, and greasy watermelons and mottled plasma of once happy lice and chickens and what lies at the base-content;

And ruined strewn offering baskets designed for my Bananas

And wet fragmented boards for chess or draught

And other dead cults of propaganda like myself

Living only between dyed wall and inhalation and shadow—

Crowded shadows at the centre of the single shadow.

And from somewhere, the droning moan of a broken-down piano thumping out an unchanging rhythm; he feels low, searching for peace outside scales



I try to remember and hold the maps of good times

Against a squeaking afro God,

Squeaking afro men,

Squeaking afro ideas.

I think we are in mice alley, where we misplaced our sweet faces and bones

For solemn (thought) napkins.

I try to remember the curves of Negro moon,

Once strong enough to arouse you from a biscuit dream

Backslidden in this part of the world, without peace.

My nerves are corrupt tonight, with discord

As I reach the crowded door of Shangri-La,

As usual,

As I escape into a crowded, bizarre sleep.


                                      OSIRO MIZPAH UNUEVHO                                          

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