the song of hell

is a loosed rhythm,
a voice broken into pieces,
dipped into vibration…

without tutor we now realize
we were greater than the addictions
we thought were printed pleasures
on the lines of our stony-heart…

we wail here with echoes,
with mother’s repetition,
with do not curse a man when you venture
the streams with pitchers;
the echoes had weaved itself into songs,
loosed ones…

we do not even memorize them
we recollected many slaughters
on the flesh of tongues             fine murders of mothers,
with pregnant wombs, they cursed too…

the moon must have watched our
iniquity float into fullness,
the sun might have sighted the tunes
of our tender kleptomaniac…

father had preached and prayed salvation,
mother had pitched and preyed
holiness into us like to open our
palms to the nails,
for these ones             they had gone far miles into
dark dens of liquors and lick-whores
they suck deep filth with passionate stupor…

they sank into death,
with gnashing songs with eternal intoxications,
the hell kept singing…
————————

sorrows of a saint…

mama annoys me every day,
and slaughters me on this wicked altar
of frustration…

just like cristine’s in dependence,
i also took up arms
to end it all
end these agonies of wretchedness,
anxieties, future dims and faded rest
of this family in a family’s shame
and buried bruises…

mama would use you ten times in
exchange for another’s pamper,
she would milk you ten miles in exchange for another’s pamper
she would abuse you with mother’s tongue,
with swollen tongues
and name your god a fool in the middle…
she speaks in tongues,

till pressures make you think of how a man
looses a rope’s nakedness in the bush,
and climbing a stage of silent sea at sorrow’s ease…

she makes my furnace red for my burns,
she ate my food for my
eternal hunger…
————————
Poem © Olude S. Peter
Image: Pixabay.com remixed