INSIDE THIS ISSUE:
Chris Lord
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VOLCANO two months ago, the boss woke, to put to sleep the office coffee. now he complains of "underperforming" and of "flagged indices"--the kind of words that loiter around the brows of underachieving managers, words that drop dangerously upon heads that now lack the caffeine of clear thinking. and the milk of contentment. these days official memos taste sugarless, just like the white-collared dreams that collide in the air above the cubicles till noon; dreams of rats that rub out the finish line with their feet. rats that will never grow used to the damming of the black, steaming river that never liked to be called volcano. WORSHIP White shirts&shorts assemble in the shrine Of time, furtively invoking the godofgrandprix. White drops of clarity seed In the blueblack muddiness of dawn's bowl. We are goosebumps, swaying On Issele-Uku's dew-darkened dust. We are toy soldiers sprawled In the counsel of ease. We are ferris wheels of feet, powered By instincts still intact in the slime Of birth. And we are voices unravelling From mouths kissed by blindness. Tolu Ogunlesi, Lagos, Nigeria |
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