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<h5 class="wp-block-heading">BECAUSE BOYS ARE NOT FLOWERS</h5>



<pre class="wp-block-verse">Because boys are not born of seeds or suckers 
I hide the garden in my mouth for I shouldn't 
culture emotions. 
 
Because a boy's eyes must wear fire &; not water 
I string my lashes with beads of coal 
&; clothe my pupil with Sulphur. 
 
Because a boy's dreams are fleeing horses 
I saddle my feet to the soils of my hometown 
to resist the hungry urge for futility. 
 
Because boys are not flowers 
I expect no nurturing shears 
&; craft a knife to trim every thorn 
but every thorn is my body. 
I have no petals but my body 
is painted with the blood of 
punctured dreams.</pre>



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<h5 class="wp-block-heading">BLEEDING EARTH</h5>



<pre class="wp-block-verse">This poem is a razor peeling off a body's skin. 
Say, this body is earth.
Say, the blades of this metaphor are dripping with blood. 
Say, this razor steals the earth's color &; blights with red lessions.
Say, this razor plants infections into genial sands &; reaps a harvest of silence.
Say, silence bears seeds &; disperses them through the garden of this body.
Say, her flowers have thorns. 
Say, this body is bleeding. 
Say, this body's throat is slit &; parched.
Say, silence is growing adventitious roots into these orchestrated pieholes.
Say, trees are cooking their weathered leaves. 
Say, this body is a sheaf of gadling leaves under hot stone. 
Say, this body's blood is burning into hot gas. 
Say, this body is evaporating to heaven.
This body is a bleeding earth
And this poem is soiled with blood.
This earth is the memorabilia of a boy who once lived here.</pre>



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<h5 class="wp-block-heading">IN MY COUNTRY, NO ONE PAYS TICKET FOR THE CONCERT</h5>



<pre class="wp-block-verse">In my country, no one pays the ticket. for the concert 
but we all attend through our big LCD/stout 
radio/Southey nosepicker/prints/dailies. 
 
We do not like the song/instrumentation/artiste 
yet our bodies dance. a floor wriggle/a running 
stance/a walking stance/a screaming stance/a wailing stance. 
 
We do not like the song/instrumentation/artiste 
yet we accolade them with chaotic uproar/hubbub/hullabaloo, 
even though our mind is not waltzing along. 
 
In my country when the musician mouths his lyrics 
&; we reply with screams &; our bodies dance 
&; someone reacts emotionally to his verses, 
it is not called a manifestation/deliverance/soul-winning 
but a massacre/insurgency/life-raping/soul-killing. 
Think of the musician as a gun cartridge 
the song, a gun &;. the lyrics, the recoil. 
 
In my country, no one pays the ticket 
yet we all attend the concert.</pre>



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<h5 class="wp-block-heading">CITY OF LIGHTS</h5>



<pre class="wp-block-verse">tonight, the city wears 
the shawl of moonlight &; stars 
over the shoulders of its 
houses. here, every house is 
prettified with the regalia 
of the skies. 
 
in one home, drums are being 
beaten and songs are being sung 
while in another there is a solemn 
silence. a silent mourning. 
 
in this house, there are two 
occupants staring at each other 
with lonesome faces. there is no 
movement, no dialogue 
nothing but the chirping 
of crickets in the rear. 
 
both faces are arresting each other’s look 
staring as though they were reflections of one another. they are 
silent squinting hard 
trying to undress this lonesome face.</pre>



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<h5 class="wp-block-heading">AUBADE TO DAWN</h5>



<pre class="wp-block-verse">The morning sun wakes 
unsheathing darkness from my cornea 
&; sleep plunges into an abyss: 
my nerves excited 
rushes through cytoplasmic streams. 
This morning I awake with a 
flair like no other morning, 
suddenly noticing everything 
beautiful about the beginning of a day. 
The symphony of mockingbirds 
in the rear humming a sonorous 
 tune of ecstasy. The ethereal melody 
from the beating of their powerful wings. 
The sweet fragrance of daffodils from 
the neighbor's garden. The synthesizing 
tick-tock tick-tock of the wall clock. The 
whispering dialogue between two ants 
opposite my bed. The music of the gentle breeze 
blowing through venetian blinds. The steaming 
aroma of ginger tea coming from the kitchen...</pre>



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<p class="has-text-align-right has-black-color has-text-color has-background" style="background-color:#ade6fe">Adesiyan Oluwapelumi, (TPC XI) is a writer from Nigeria. He is a keen lover of the literary arts and loves to spend his free time scribbling poems or doodling abstract drawings. Oluwapelumi’s works have appeared or are forthcoming in Words Rhymes &; Rhythm, Brittle Paper Spillwords, Poemify magazine, Beatnik Cowboy, Synchronized Chaos and elsewhere. He is @ademind17 on Instagram and @ademindpoems on Twitter.</p>
 
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‘BECAUSE BOYS ARE NOT FLOWERS’, ‘BLEEDING EARTH’, ‘IN MY COUNTRY NO ONE PAYS TICKET FOR THE CONCERT’, ‘CITY OF LIGHTS & ‘AUBADE TO DAWN’ (five poems by Adesiyan Oluwapelumi)
