Buds Of Bugs Poem by Felix Bongjoh

(i)

Traffic lights grow
a green lawn -
not for a roll-on play;

not for the carpet
on which high-heeled shoes
dig into fur and foam,

no trotting birds
to watch,

as they bury their heads
in blanketed wings.

Rays bounce back
with red lights

flashing on with a sprint
from a policeman's brow,

a mountain that raised
its head
from a red fire over
a deep crater

bubbling with a bunch
of tickets
with no wings to fly
when moments are dry.

(ii)

Buds of bugs
spring from the mulched ridge
of crawling eyes

blindfolded
by dye
from a pot of cream mist,
black ink dried off
into the ditch of a flying lie.

And ears wallow
with nothing
to grab from clouds

and a rainbow worn
over a chameleon's
shaky gown,

when a policeman's
ward robe
grows into a desert
brewing a storm of hate,

the wink and torch eye
that slash and pierce
the poor river-flowing woman

into a frown
carrying a spider's legs
flipping out
thorny ants to crawl
and nibble off

the moonstone glow
of her bright morning floating
over deep-toothed scorpions.

(iii)

The morning now rides
on a hill of snakes

grown from ripples
and wrinkles
of the policeman's face

tapered into a poked
forked tongue
licking air until thunder falls:

"You roared past the lights"
"Of course not",

as morning's glossy sky breaks
on tarmac into shards
crawling towards her bumper
with buds of bugs

from a sunny man's shrieked cackle
cutting air
with a stropped sword,
a sirened moment
growing buds of bugs.