Rhythms and rhymes

resurrected from the known tomb

of a legendary writer,

Lines lost to the grave

at the expedient behest of death the ultimate angel of doom.

Poetry as fair and fie as nature,

Words exhausted to their immortal end,

huffing and puffing to Marechera's Black Sunlight,

i see his House of Hunger

turning into a monumental structure

One more puff please before i turn over to the next page.

I'm smoking literature and not toasted cigarettes

books are wiser than weed

i know that better than a graduate,

I don't choke when i smoke

I only get wiser,

Don't give me a caricature

i know how Marechera-sweet literature tastes

I am a lyrical portal of poetic essence

but when it comes to this Throne of Bayonets ...

honestly please i maintain my silence

I would rather "share cynical cigarettes in Cecil square

with a writer who tasted Harare and got down with diorrhea

More literature for breakfast please

I'm not taking toasted bread or roasted eggs

i know how high this poetry can get,

Don't give me a rizzla

purified, perfected literature gets me high beyond the sky

How can the legend evade my penmanship,

i am only writing to imitate his writer-ship

I mean the kinda dope verses,

pens up fellas, this ain't the kinda cheap s**t either

On that vulgar note the pen got stuck

just like that.., it got stuck

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