Uche Nduka

Welcome to the confession booth. Call this swathe of time The Tamarind Years. There has never been a First Take or a Last Take here. Regrets ought not to be farewells to a sunrise. The cuddly speaker is not in the know. Only his tender chains are changing places.dem feckless tabloids are into the wiggie shake.dem borders are fodders for banana regiments. Interminable feet beside the lagoon or are they beside the Hudson. A morning's immodest summon. Here the idiom of sisterhood attacks the work-a-day wrench of incessant arguments. A door is yanked open. A housebreaker leaves. And leaves behind boxes of books, currencies, vinyls.welcome to the confession booth. Getting to know you, all is newness now. Laid end to end all your gaffes would fill a primordial farmhouse. And nothing would stop your prowl as you nose around seductive anxieties. A plugged clue unplugs itself. What is connected uncomments itself. Grief raps loudly on a windowsill. You head for the fast track ahead of earnest scavengers. In this season of financial homicides, bills rig your worth.rig your worth. But you keep a date with mourners for no one is free from the madness of death. Of course the last gasp remains a prophecy on a slow trek to infinity. It badgers wine, flowers, meal for two. It is the voice that speaks undisturbed. A drop of water is its drop of seed. It teaches what holds, what thaws, what delights. Hard lives pluck dignity from ancient experiences.
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These are binary origins revealed to a traveler in those roundups of banditry. In those rubbles scratched into the sky. In those etchings overlooked in the twilight’s do not crave your sympathy’s crave disjunction. Something approaching a standoff; a rip; a wrecking of an archive; credulity deflecting absolution. Towards 6a.m dancing on sawdust. Laughing about wagons in dunes, tracing a prayer's curvature, mulling over creases in your promise. Yearning
Accrues to me beyond what the tundra does’ am no stoic’s lick a spoon. The theme of a calendar sues to stay with us. In and around chance and choice my sentences remain half-finished. Words invite us to take part in stamping their feet; in thrashing the desks of belles-lettres; in scorning the mirage of a bookworm; in fusing bindweed and algae. My logic cannot catch all the spoils of the possible. My past momentarily cannot cease being a thirst. Being no visitation of a whip, being no visitation of loss, the subterfuge of a needle is plainly absurd. This present incarnation of the philosopher's stone does not interest me. Some courtesies are diabolical. Overall the fowl has bled to its limit. Interruption is our condition. In interruption is our trace. The way in is not the way outgoing in the direction of tiredness it is better to be incensed than bored?
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Nothing is as true now as the fragility of consequence. Termination’s afoot. Beware of avatars. The real you never keeps gladness in check.Ogirisi-the boundary marker-is waving there. He will not be sowing grace sideways. Only another part of decrescendo tries his patience. He opts for archery. Hangs stockings on a window. Rejects a peace kit along with two white handkerchiefs. Nothing doing in the solar plexus. He will rather whisper than shout. Will rather bum a cigarette from a trouper than wave a laminated menu. In the undergrowth his rages outshine his anxieties. He wields a surfeit of cowries and plinths. There is footage of him at a banquet. He has left so much behind. Has been out of the fray for a while. He delights in goofing off. Delights in drawing masks on wet soil with his index finger. He fires his words point blank at the boundary marker. Spreads butter on a mantle. He goes to the apex of thought while still at the service of a moonrise. He seeks the amulets of days and textures of fortune. Secrets are what he will give you. Shrouds are what he will give you. And no wonder-a Fire Alarm sinks into the gist of gravity/destiny. The massage oil on offer is of a kind they don't make any more. A stalemate waits for resolution. A lover stares and stares at a slipcover. Heavy petting resents having a tale pinned on it.
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inside a crystalline
And bearded boat.
though this clang
may be a flaw
It may also be a flow.
a glass knocked over
A tree planted.
though sound-alike’s
some are wrist cutters
Others kolanutters.
at random the heliotrope laughs
With a cougar hide.
With a boot unlaced.
you have no idea
What fact-hounds criminally deny.
What a counter note demands.
See this portakabin?
Do you hear these lascivious prayers?
You don't?
See that pleat?
You mean the one behind the window?
The hours are getting lost in us.
Does it matter?
You don't have to worry about that.
I can't help it. The situation disturbs me.
Not a runt. Not a runt.
For hours musk defines us as we gently push inside each other.
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Inside the elementary school class copying pictures. Pondering the arrows sticking out of Saint Sebastian's torso. Got no words to spray at them. Got no herbs to cure the diseased wind. Questing for trout. Applause and frolics at the barbecue. Applause for rodents. Applause for rodents. Applause for legumes. Inside the elementary school class pointing at cornleaves.pollen grains pilgrimming.hearths and barns and petulant dials. Beyond a wizened gardener. Tearing the beadwork of consonants. Steering beyond oasis, loam, no words to spray at flint and face. Inside the elementary school class with seething maidens of the Niger. Pondering the flute perusing an assegai. A pestle swinging over the shiny roofs of houses.shoals, anchorages and all the inclines of the heart. Footings slipping over wild-eyed yams. Runaways feathered. Hands cupped around the map of an embattled mangrove.