Murder

 

I kill Papa every week;

in shanties, dark alleys and dingy rooms.

With tears in my voice and laughter in my eyes,

I stab his body, soul and spirit.

Each time, he dies while visiting my honeypot,

and I caress him with knife stabs;

his spurting blood, purges my hands and soul.

Papa died on a starry night when 

he had slipped while staggering out my door.

I had finished him off;

first with the smoky cigars 

he tatoos my back with while in ectasy,

and then holed him out in crazed abrupt motions.

Now I still kill him whenever he appears

in his tall, fair and lanky profile; complete with the gap-tooth 

and angelic voice.

And would continue on, till his always 

re-incarnating form is finally stumped out.

© Ojo Hannah Damilola