Fly Sings To A Greasy Man Poem by Felix Bongjoh

Fly Sings To A Greasy Man

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(i)

We meet
and hug each other
in a clash
of midget and man,
bleeding
trumpeting elephants,

as they part
each other without
a toe-peeking bow
in their rising
ships on ripples
of air's drifting sea.

Through cream
and silver air,
I buzz
and dive in again
dancing with
arm flaps and a whirr.

Through quiet
waves in air's sea
overflowing
borders and shores
of hollow space
stretching wings

to low and high
wheeling strips
flowing to float
in air's canoe

paddled by air
in stretched arms
of cream sea.

(ii)

I am sky
shifting skies
in a narrow
floor of air,
It's ceiling
flipping me back

to the floor
tumbling over
with me
to a basement
with no ceiling,
curls and coils

of air, as I rise
back to heights
sailing above
sky to flattening
skies beyond a patch
of nebula.

Flapping its wings
to roll closer
to you in your
daisy and cream
home, its yard
the wings of your
clasping hands

that scrub and grind
me, when I've flipped
off to face you
with a gun's muzzle
stuck right
into your ears

backing off
into a wall
that hammer's you,
as you bounce back
screaming
"I almost broke head",

while I giggle
with another whirr
bawling at you
and with my muzzle's
mouth trumpet
the shot fired
with the arrow

to touch a fruit's lever
in your ear,
which I fail to nibble
off, as you
stretch your hands again
with an eagle's beak
that pecks at me,

(iii)

as I dive again
into your ears
and kiss you
on your backed-off lips,
as your palm flies
back with a bat

to smash me into
pieces of bleeding me,
while you thunder
out with the sharp lightning
that heaves you
into breathless sleep,

while I buzz off
into the wilds and thick
jungle of drifting air
landing with me
on your candied
hamburger

missing its diving path
into your deep throat
devouring the world
in bits of air
you sometimes swallow
we, as I buzz

in your stomach
with a knight's sword
churning more grease
than the pomade
that drew me
into the hollows

of your face,
you the greasy man
tilting offsewing
needle touches
and the bullet kiss
that bites you
off your couch.

Sunday, September 27, 2020
Topic(s) of this poem: fly,man
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Felix Bongjoh

Felix Bongjoh

Shisong-Bui, Cameroon
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