Harmattan’s dust overfills our nostrils,
repeatedly, announcing her aura
way too sharp, unnecessarily faint,
lazy lazy drops of red,
and dash of Cameroon’s romantic pepper.
Exhaust pipes dish out smoke,
dark and strong as crusaders,
fit and focused and oddly smooth
slaying us with fierce long swords.
Rattle snakes and golden scorpions
all the way through deserts sail,
just to bask in driest soils,
sun and wind and coldest nights.
Whence upon a blister stays,
odd and bold with deadly hurt,
wounds on wounds and thousand itches.
When the enfant’s white visages,
ghostly, daring, bravely built
all about the foggy streets
they wander,cracks and maps for lips and ass.
Tall or short or thinly stood,
cough, after hicup after painful sneeze,
all but one to pay her courteous dues
while our temp reads 97.
Still she slays she wants much more,
fencing all our eyes with starch,
sticky, warm and largely brash,
all because of Apollo’s yeux.
Steal the waters,
peel the flowers,
dry the lovely veggie farm,
fry the patch,
take the lake,
take the clouds we thought we owned,
take it all but let us be,
Baked and hot and nu and tanned.