Poetry

Consensual drop. 
White bougainvilleas 
were falling 
on green eyes, 
as I climb the sun. 
 
Not a loss. 
The seeds will carry 
an image of a fallen 
hero on the hairy chest 
of a spilled sperm- 
 
into the rippled lake 
of a crowd chanting the enemy’s 
death. The heritage 
of corrupt state will bury 
the memorial of a honeycomb. 
 
Do you hear a meltdown 
of an ululating monk? 
A piercing trill comes from 
a scalp scooping the wardrobe 
of a dethroned king.