MOSES CHUKWUEMEKA CHIMEREMEZE - POEMS

Moses Chukwuemeka Chimeremeze lives in Lagos, Nigeria. He is an experience designer, RnB guitarist, amateur artist, writer and a half-hearted believer in eloquent tragedies. A recluse, he always, always got the blues. 
Twitter: @thechimeremeze

Circe on Wednesday
​​

​You are Wodin's first child
The grandson to the
stepdaughter of the sun
A planet was struck
with a healthy
dose of Ceaser's disease
And forgot their orbit
For a little while, annexed
and eclipsed the Sol bodies
by the breadth and breath of a whispering comet
Tinged in wine and
Flirting with unrecommended spirits
Sharpened by the tongues of ordinary flowers
A canvas for lucid dreams
 
 

Your body is not a tragedy, Thank God
​

​Your body is an island
Lovingly sculpted by the god
of obstacle courses
perfected in the rows of gleaming
enamel soldiers dressed as
diplomats, standing sentinel.
 
But your body is a maze
A mathematical equation to befuddle Archimedes
Craftsmanship to shame a Mercedes
A minotaur trapped in a forgotten exhibit mildewed by the
worry of a failing curator wading through a mid-life crisis
barely trying to hide his nervousness
In the pockets of pleasure buried at the end of your curves
 
You are an inchoate tenderness
snaking through indifferent hummus.
A spectral presence for roving eyes
and a steady idol for my probing tongue
 
 

Ode to you as a sixties otherworldly aesthetic
 For Fareedah
​

​gods choose the undeserving
to tend their temples
who will believe them otherwise?
 
I have been called to your temple of somersaults
As a witness, to breathe in flowers
And breathe out beauty like a cliché in summer
 
Like the incantations of a belly dancer
falling on a haze of smoke
The spell hits the next morning
when you can't find your wallet
 
It is forbidden to mention your name
 
The laughter of a stream
drunk on its own sweetness
Hair rollers, rouge, scarves
Tenpins and
Helene's dagger
are totems for your worship
 
 You seem to be always wanting something
 
 
The line where twilight ends
A politician's orange knapsack
An orphanage for flood waters
A paycheck folded into the armpit of a cadaver
All have one thing in common
 
What memory, has the sea of her lover?
 
gods choose the undeserving
to tend their temples
who will believe them otherwise?