Sun Rips Moon Poem by Felix Bongjoh

(i)

In a bedroom
constricting
itself into a little crawling boa,

moon speaks out loud
with a half-mouth,

mumbles through oval lips
on a beige flute landing
from the head-joint of a sun's ray
breaking into cotton specks,

as smoke and ashes
hover over
hammers breaking skeletons
into weevilled stems
of rays melting into dark corners

and into ashes
and gray hairy clouds stroking
darkened old men's dusty beards.

Walls are bleeding
with casebearers carrying
no cases of zircons
from cracked and broken
coats of paint.

(ii)

Like rising skies, pillars
jump with shreds of moon
to leave the room
a waxy box with no lid to let off

steam and hot breeze,
a vulture's eyes flung over
far banks beyond croaking

and croaking voices
killing crooning showers of sun,
leaving only dim lattices
and slabs of a bloating night.

Overweight black birds
fly across shining tunnels
floating on bobbing
wings into a melting night sitting
on a bleached moon arc.

(iii)

The afternoon sun outside
behind sinking windows
stifled with heavy curtains
sings the quiet chirping song of night

buried under fidgety feet
stretching out claws to grip warmth
lost to baked bricks

biting off all fingers of light
poked into the dim moony room.

How my head carries
a heavy rock of half-night,
as night-wrapped moments of wounds
in a room nursing a moon.

I jump up towards
a window wallowing
with a drifting half-night:

I draw a black feathered curtain
and sun rips moon.