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Two Poems by Josaya Muianga

About Perfection


You are too over cooked,
I adored you when you were crisp and light,
With the yellow scent of tumeric your edible enigma;
But now you are over cooked
Dripping, limp with oil like an obese pizza,
the vacuum abhored by nature!

We stuffed your fat mother,
A stubborn resolute bitch with fully figured polka hips,
With lemon wedges inside her stomach,
Marinated the naked hide of her softness
With Dijon mustard, parsley, sprinkled basil, coriander, salt and red pepper
And a couple of fancy tongue-bending vegetables beside her for company sake.
Then laid her down on a pan stroked with a paint-like touch of olive oil
And added the complementary savoury of the moment
On a tumbler filled with a fine mérlot;
And how can i forget,

The occasional laughter that comes
With such a fine evening?

Oh well,
Pefection is key when impressing the door.
I opened this door,
Found a lady loose on pressed grapes.
A familiar place i reckoned,
One that i find myself in
When exposed to the nature of my very own thoughts;
So we opted for the impromptu,
Rehearsals were too pretentious;
And the over cooked rice
Less of an issue than before she had arrived.
I guess she was human after all.



Soliloquy of a Yogi


She will call me again when thirsting for amusement;
I will come running with my tongue out in the open,

Drooling dry saliva like a bone to pick my dented teeth.
Her full lips whistling a country accent are like a harmonica.
Pulling a ribbon as a present from a box

Full of myrrh, frankinscence and golden pearls,

For the eyes a wicked temptation but i am no Son of Man,
I crack with my bones fractured at the sound of the wind;

Expendable like soldiers on foot,

Always needed but never wanted —

Deferential, glad to be of use,
An autumn leaf of that naked season,

I should have been damned to a noose;
Even beggers find cents or madibas,
Whilst smelling like rotten eggs.
And your lady friend asks for the reason?

You will model about as slowly as you always do,

With your behind mopping the scraps from

A vagabond’s roofless bed, whispering,
“Oh, dear, how i forgot all together about our dinner.”
And i will all together think,
“But you always do”
And then speak with my mouth,
“It is nothing, what a lovely landscape that does project, dear?”
(Who cares about the damn thing anyway!)

And I will turn around and eye another soft looking thing

That posseses some of your features –
Black-braided woman, gracefully, enthused,
Pacing up to a lover, a friend, a male,
However you would desire.
I will think of you for a moment
(and the reasons your lady friend has been inquiring about)
And ask you, ”Can you taste the wind beneath my palms —

A spring of magnolia-scent for the soot in a heart that does abide?

I have made you a beautiful flower, a daffodil.”
But there are three-hundred-and-sixty-five suns

Touching the petals of your velvet skin within a year.

Which one am i?

Perhaps, the one that leaps?