There is this place no one talks about.
Its streets have weeds growing round and
round and round about it, an exact
picturesque of a home often unvisited.
There is this place — I know of this place —
a place where no one hears too much or too
little about —
A place where soot clouds the sky.
Yes. The place is beautyfull, and beautiful:
at least, most wondrous of lips say so.
But —
This home is often unvisited.
Vividly unvisited like Pompeii.

There is this place no one talks about.
I know of this place —
I think it lies in the continent of Africageria:
In this place people create a new hell whilst
trying to create a new heaven and
its roads are bedridden, with just two lanes:
The roads and the gullies.
Yes. People have pretended to cling to this place and its memories
— to be patriotic —
I know of this place.
In this place, Governors of the state
takes stacks; milkless meals for the ones
obviously dying.
In this place —
Masculine becomes a deep scare of being too
careful of the hides & shines to wear
least you entice the Lieutenant-Governor to ask:
“A shekel or a live?”

There is this place no one ever talks about
I know of this place —
air doesn’t go there again. Only a few rivers
still flows down there, and the ones that do
are dirtier than sand.
A cuckold father hits a daughter who kisses girls
maims a mother and a girl who prays the rosary
& says he’s clearing the house of Methuselah.
The pay TV screen keeps flickering red and grey,
tabloids that read, “…”

There is a place no one talks about.
A place where pillars and caryatids of the temples are more fallen than
the fallen angels —
This place is Nige[ruin], and its people gracing
within and without are
Nige[ruins] —
And tired eyes are tired of these same
cycles to reach a place in a place that doesn’t exist.





Photo by Temitayo Aina on Unsplash