Flames Of Dusk Poem by Felix Bongjoh

(i)

Who are those men in fuscia
and magenta hats sitting over
flamingo glasses of long drinks spilling
patches of gold crowds
of fireflies into a hollow bowl of sky?

Heaven sits on its high throne
scraping out the bottom
of its paint pot with sprinkles
and flying copper drips.

Pink and chestnut strips
and masses of birds sail
into large bronze wings of clouds
with no heads.

They drag whisked tails
towards a fire and medallion track
carrying only broken wheels
and chassis of space,

a thick ash-coated exhaust pipe
coughing out spirals and balls
of smoke bouncing off
to stretching broken banks of sky.

A chunk of bone cloud
shreds off wheat and coral dust
over a rising bank, quickly

falling back into the precipice
of a rocky column
collapsing into a bright sapphire lake.

(ii)

In the stretchy cafes below,
folks stretch out arms and fingers
out of bored yawns

and deep boreholes into thick
pads and hills of patience,

their wait having scooped out miles
of track into a desert on wheels
running into a thick orchard,

from which they pick and sip
red and cherry and rose berries
and pink cones of fruits

to chew off flying chats
and snailing gossip
over the deepening crater,

into which the thorn-strapped community
is falling, a tail of lightning
dropping into a rising nimbus cloud.

(iii)

But the kings and queens
of a bright dusk jump back to sky seats
shining with timid stars

dancing around a woolly moon
to knit the flannel gown of a thicker
evening, a pink swan

dragging chunks of wheat
and beige clouds to ignite a gold arc.

Over a flowered screen
on the far-flung horizon,
a pyramid of sparks and cinder and smoke
shoot through air
heaving the branches of a flamy evening:

Chats unfold silhouettes of BIR-ignited
homes, fires burning folks
already wearing grey and charcoal coats
of death, the only rock and stone.