Tag Archives: life

SCRIPTURES ACCORDING TO SHADOWS: The Assassins’ Creed

 

 

The 10th Mat lecture note consisting of 42 slides given by the Head of Department to the Dove Agents in the year 31 AD. Corey Red and Precise softly jamming “Representing” in the background as the lecture slideshow begins.

 

From street to school

Don’t be rude under my rule

Wisdom lies in my long cane

Feel the pain and reap the gain

If you come hungry and humble

I’ll be so open you won’t grumble

Leave religious and moral biases behind

And I’ll be sure to blow your mind

 

THE MISSION

 

A pair is fair

Partner up don’t fear

Hit the armory

Be skilled in weaponry

Don’t dillydally or sway

You’ll live the assassin’s way

 

Penetrate both industry and street

Smart, efficient and discreet

Mix with civil servants and thugs

Bump fists, shake hands, and give hugs

But don’t live like they do

You’re just passing through

 

Strike with the gospel of peace

Save lives without charging fees

Make tested faith your bulletproof

‘Spiritual’ doesn’t mean ‘without proof’

Stuff up critically on the word

Wield scriptures with logic like a ninja sword

 

This is beyond martial arts

You’ll be fighting the dark arts

Your war in earth’s dangerous parts

Against internal and national corruption starts

But it will take its toll

You can check the poll

 

A pair is fair

The Spirit in you ain’t for fear

He’ll give you intel keeping you updated

When tortured don’t be intimidated

He is only baiting the enemy

And will sure wreck the tyranny

 

Hit the principalities

Enslaving the communities

The thug or homosexual ain’t hostile target

It’s that Lucifer who needs the bullet

And soon as mission’s done

The Spirit handles your extraction

 

The lecture ended to the song “I don’t pack a ‘matic” by S.O. the Kid; and the Dove Agents flew out, easy and unpredictable as the wind, sharp and fierce like fire.

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LOOKING FOR YOU

Source: online, unknown

Dearest,

Some would fight for love. I don’t have that as-noble-as-is-shameful aspiration. I am writing to find you. When I used to watch you write, I never quite understood it when you told me it calmed you. Well, maybe because I could not imagine you ruffled in the first instance. You said writing helped you collect your thoughts.

I don’t collect, neither am I quite collected.

I am writing to find you.

Where are you since you have been gone? Where do people like you go? Into the arms of someone else? Who can satisfy the appetites of people like you? Can even someone like you do that? I know I pushed you away. And I know the hurt in itself could drive you into the arms of another in a fit of rebound, yes? Or, are you beyond frailties? I like to think what we shared could mean so much to you to have affected you that way. Apparently, I am not beyond selfishness. Or, maybe that is the way the experience some call love ought to be. That what partly made it special was knowing that I was responsible for you and you vulnerable to me. How sick is that?

Is there any point to this? Why should I want you back? What is to stop this cycle from repeating itself again? People argue breakup-makeup cycles are bad. Others say one could learn from past mistakes and redo things better. What if the explanation is simpler than that? That we are meant to be, and part of what happens is we grow from knowing that we are bound to end up with each other again –the sense of the inevitability. That generally should make sense to you. It should comfort you that: the fact we keep ending up back together should mean that we are meant to be –the sense of predestination, certainty and rightness of decision. The proof that a force beyond natural must want us to be together.

Or, have we become an old love? The kind that just gives off smokes like a locomotive, which can never aspire to be a spaceship giving off fire. You know such crafts are not practicable on this earth’s ground where we live, right? Why not enjoy the familiarity that we have. Why not gain from growing into each other. Or, does that make us like poles which repel?

People argue a little drama now and then is good. Does breaking up sound little to you? Should one deliberately start a drama not knowing if it had the capacity to escalate into a break? How does one perfectly control the situation? Would someone in love be so calculating and manipulative of love itself no less?

I know we are generally a complicated lot as humans. We criticise some for making issues complicated. Yet we somehow deep inside enjoy complications in life. We say it makes us feel alive.

But, please, believe me when I say I want to find you. It’s not about finding love as an experience. I want you. And this desire is without complication or another shade of meaning. It is as plain as my thoughts, as my words.

It is as wonderfully calm as I feel when writing. When writing this.

Don’t make me wait forever. The waiting game does not necessarily breed passion. It can finally kill whatever spark is left.

Please…

I wait to hear from you.

 

Yours,

BREATHE

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Introspective

It’s nice to sing that new beat
Not just when drunk on milk and beef
Or high on smoke from that roasting rabbit
Meat so deliciously lean and stiff
As we gather round the heat
All of us dancing on the cliff
Thankful that tonight life is neat
And we are spared the gliff
Spared the terror and hit
That make us tremble like a leaf
Tearing us bit by bit
Ain’t this life’s spiff
Biting us in the butt even on retreat
Never leaving like our very own reef
Driving nails into the sores of our feet
Darkening the core of all our belief
Setting up pins for us on our seat
So nauseating is this life’s whiff
Monsters parade this life’s gloomy street
Even when silent we hear them sniff
Causing terrors that make our hearts grit
These life’s fairy-demons meet us with a biff
They greet our joys with a slit
And spare us no tiff
Leaving us a ghastly bloody treat
So when we get some relief
We are thankful for the feast
Giving the Creator glory without miff
And smiling as we lie tonight each on his bedsheet

Resting In Peace!

INTROSPECTION (songs for plath)

Someone I know presented this at a book club, and something about the content made me decide to share, as I told him.

pic by_aeternum_art-d6vy5hm.jpg

I

My heart is a tomb where hope comes to live,

I go to parties of happiness to breathe,

I inhale all the light around me

and leave the parties when it gets dark,

too dark for men to see

without stumbling into the sadness.

Too dark to feel for lighters that lift the souls of men high.

 

I watch their fears colliding from a distance,

I giggle.

 

II

On quiet days

when there are no songs left in my lungs,

I write.

 

I like to write stories of women that died

while embracing life-

firmly

women we thought had too much of her in them

but we never cared to look beneath their skins.

 

On autopsy,

the pathologist said he found castles living inside them,

Castles that echoed whispers.

 

III

There are nights when I dream;

 

I am a bird, carrying happiness within my beak

Flying towards a nest I do not know.

 

I never get home.

An angry storm breaks my beak into two,

happiness dissolves into a stream of darkness.

 

I wake up screaming.

Sweating.

 

-OLUAFOLABI

Prose or poetry

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I can never amount to that
Like those who shamelessly
Tirelessly aspire to glory
They seek novelty among the regular

I don’t coordinate that long
My thoughts are unfaithful
Shamefully capricious
I try to write a good story
Like a famed novelist
But I don’t get a page through

Novelists are manipulative and dubious
They live for masks
They conjure strings of words
But you never see the start or end
They say it is fiction
But we know it is gossip
They say they write about human lives
But we know they write eulogies to themselves

I am as plain as you read me
See my lines
Full of little short words
That don’t even aspire to the ceiling
Look at them broken apart
I can never seem to write sentences
Long enough to fill the screen
Even when I have ideas that long
I never seem able to write a full line
I always fall short
I always walk within my mortal limits
I’m no demigod like novelists
And other citizens of the Writing Kingdom
I’m an outcast
A dribbler
A scribbler
A conman

Look one last time at my lines
The next not logically linked to the previous
I am humble
I am broken
My thoughts are as fragmented as they appear
Disjointed as my lines
Verbose and circumstantial
My imagination loose and childish
Floating like a kite in lightning
Immature
Dented
Crippled
My scattered lines betray my mortality
Seeming close to paradise
But never quite making it for the life of me
Left trudging near the edge
Wandering
Wasting
Unsatisfactory
Incomplete

P.S. Hope the reader knows this is not a poem.