I am 97% sentimental.
Though marginalised in some countries, this… This is still the pass rate.
It’s a collective subconscious amongst the writers, you see
That solicited bonding, an agency shop of Grace for the brethren, if you will
Marginalised poets on the verge of wanting to break free from a diet of water and Hosea
Because of false-hood
Because there isn’t a compliment of 3%
Because whenever they finished speaking, they also began another conversation.
Because our writing is punctuated to the point of irreversibility
Rivalry on choked constraints
And within a sentence, all of our pauses count for something.
Our homework is remorseful – they would have given us more if they knew where we were headed
Our homeowners, vague
And now we irrepressibly bang on doors until they open
Ambassadors for good times. Before we elope.
Love being our standard.
What one could gather from all of this is that they have been provoking you
They know not what they do,
So I’m sure that they know not who is being spoken to.
Sellotape stuck to a microphone and a gavel
This is indicative of one who speaks the truth.
Open up yours and hear the philosophy
97% ain’t enough, 3% remains in the economy,
In the galaxy there’s fallen stars in the astronomy
Broken hearts moulded back together
That’s what you call pottery.
Don’t let the lens focus on what’s not been done
As that is a really bad picture.
The places in which these unorthodox writers have been looking in
Some have been litter.
Keep working on the craft
That’s what wisdom whispers…
Your currency is as dishonest as it is unsure.
Piano’s placed by pioneer’s bed stands
Do NOT make bed pans
Unless they withstand
Pained but poignant rants from in-laws
Writers wish for equality
Braces that keep us straighter.
We love like rogue wishes, rogue stunners.
Our introvert’s are removed, but are married.
Our introvert’s love like there is no other theme.
Our introvert’s verses are submissive and on fire.
Our love, in all, has no breath.
Our love has a dry mouth, our love takes notes from passers-by
Our love leaves flasks of tea
And lanterns for you if you are journeying home late and forget that we are in fact your ‘home’.
Our love continues to hand tributes to those who wished to abstain
From our love.
Sometimes I’ve been rallying with ‘they’ which makes us ‘we’ and ‘we’ think not of love.
Our bellies wail emphatically, we want to eat quick then bounce like the doorman outside a club
Drunk, had a bit too much to drink from the pub.
We see you, what you offer
Yet we want to be tourists
Visiting the hot spots, we don’t care if we get caught, we are prepared to lay in our beds
With the flowers from the florists.
It’s been a cycle for me up until now
Until I said I will no longer ride different bikes from Boris
I’m going to stick to just the one even if I have to trek across London.
I’m worried that no one will understand us
My, speaking to you, like the contemporary soul artist you are,
My, speaking to you, a public-hidden, theatre-real gesture.
A promise is a promise is a promise.
We’ve banged irrepressibly upon doors for you, drunken ‘club doorman’
We’ve wanted you, ‘drunken club doorman’
We’ve insisted you were our landlords and the one’s, ‘drunken club doorman’
Why abstain? Why not pay up?
Invest in language classes
That we can all engage and participate in?
In time past, you have given us eviction notices.
Have until the end of the month
Before we move on.
Dele “DeleWrites” Osunsami and Catherine Sarpong 26.03.13