Winter 2017 — THE POTOMAC


Shola Balogun

Now my tongue is chiseled
with riddles.

I have seen several severe dances
saved for the last brawl,
of fouled rumps rumbling
to the beats of bayonets

and the witless witness
seeking solace in the stunts
of jabbering jury.

I have seen
the insidious fury
of the greedy gods,
their garrulous garbadines

and the mirthless mimicry
of deluded sickly siblings
yearning to mete eternity
with the cistern

of loaded rifles:

I have heard the thrilling rancour
of strutting sycophants,
the longings of zealous zealots
and the feline concerto

of hostile histrionics caressing
the jugular of barren seers.


There is *tiro in my eyes.
I have come to chronicle
the well–made malaise

of marionettes in the land.




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