Poetry

MAY

Litro #162: Literary Highlife | Whilst the pastor preached about hell, his son was texting girls

On the left wing of the church,
you would sit in rows with the other boys
dressed like a tidy supermarket shelf of tuna,
listening to the sermon about a version of Hell:

burning is Light’s work.
You joke to the other boys:
in Naija burning is light work.

Sometimes the pastor forgets the nature of his congregation
as if Sister Linda’s son, who would usually sit behind you,
isn’t lying in a ward, half a pound lighter in the liver after
he got caught slipping in Brixton.

Read more →
MARCH

Self-Portrait as a Garage Emcee

If I could navigate the fuzz of traffic reports, dinner table jazz and topical chat Majik FM! is where, in the stillness between last bell and the latch announcing mum’s return to stagnant dishes littering the kitchen sink, I’d rest the red dial of the Sanyo cassette player bought, part-exchange, from a now-defunct branch of Tandy on Wandsworth High St. Read more →