Manifestos of the wrong gods
On the edge of the old depilated cliff,
they stood with one leg up,
drumming tones of optimism on the onlookers,
their sugar coated tongue cut across heavenly promises.
lighting light in the mind of the little mind
They look refined in their glittering agbadas-like gold,
and their pledge was a cotton wool on the eyes of the bystanders.
Their microphonic broadcaster- voices
sketches attention of respect to the same old scene.
Masquerades dancing competition,
stirring bulky amount of dusts in the air,
to the admiration of everyone.
Friends of the poor,
humble gentlemen like shrines décor in the junction
where four foots path meet.
They sow seeds of thin cups of salt in the watchers mouth,
and in an unholy feast
they sold out their mandate cheerfully to the beast,
whose yearning for riches remained unquenchable.
Shooting from behind was his Strategy,
the tactics of the old kings.
Cursed be the manifestos of wrong gods.
Favorite fat bone swallowed by this hungry god,
who drank the blood of the healthiest bororo in the field.
And in a blink of eye, the growth of protruded belle,
The cries of the spectators grew thin
and thin until their ribs showed beneath their skin.
Evidences of the old king on the throne
The scene going the same way every season.
A true sacrifice can bulldoze the manifestos of these gods.


Stanley E Asia E