The child is born, all neighbours on me, to my friend’s place in eight days for the naming and celebrations! Time whizzes by though, the child grows beard, lays opposite sex, bears children, and before we count seven to ten, he’s already old and ripe to die. There was a girl I knew back in secondary school, she never buttoned her topmost buttons, and even teachers would not say “cover it up” for inarguably, the sight was food for the soul. Her dorsal view too, like abstract honey borne of corporeal perfection was a geography every surveyor would be willing to review free of charge, but what happened to those features (that were) assuredly imagined naked by all male classmates after the girl died (during a holiday)? Story for the gods!
To rise in politics you grind foetus with soap, uses albinos’ heads for cream and hunchbacks for talismans sewn…
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Momentary Lapse Of Sanity 