just another dang vampire wannabe

It is a night of ethereal pain, a song of dark desire,
wolves vent their loneliness. The thirsting one
rises.

Evil shrouds her gaunt form,
an impatient desire.

Her ebon hair cascades over
pale and tragic shoulders, and her
full red lips part slightly, to taste the
red tears streaming from the
pale flesh beneath
her.

Now a night of ecstasy,
I thirst.


Note: I discovered thingums called poem generators and The Goth-O-Matic is my favourite. Beauty is found in dark places. I swear it. This is the poem I generated.

Dummy Sex

I do not have a name. I am made of fibre glass but the brother next to me, he is plastic. We were shipped here from Dubai that is what the box said. I really do not know where we came from and who made us but we are here, in a shop on Kenyatta Avenue.

The barking owner barked at the people that work in the shop. She barked like a dog. Exactly like a dog. A silly Chihuahua in fake fur and very long graffiti toe nails that stuck out of her six inch polka dot gladiator peep toes. The people that work in the shop understood those soprano-alto barks to mean that we should be wiped clean, dressed appropriately -in the clothes that she chose- and placed on the window display. This was done in a record nine minutes.

In the haste, I got a synthetic hyena print Versage-Gappana Teddy Chemise. It was supposed to make me look sexy but the lady that put it on me forgot to cover my breasts. There I was, the only thing between my breasts and the male humans was very clean and clear glass. They laughed and giggled. Some had this scary look on their faces. Desire always looks baleful on a human male’s face. I like it when the women look at me because they do not really look at me but at the things that I am wearing. But these men, I am not sure about their erect looks. I do not know if they were imagining their women in the hyena print or thinking of breaking the glass pulling me out, arms attached and biting my painted nipples as they undress me on the pavement. I could not tell.

That group left, another came and left...all day. No one in the shop noticed anything because once they put us on display; they covered the area behind us with fabric that matched a theme. The theme on this occasion was Valentine’s Day. The tagline, “Hoooooot and Sassssssy.” There was satin fabric that served as a colour clashing background for my chemise and the green whip on the brother mannequin’s hand that somehow coiled around his groin and pink HugWhoRE briefs. As far as the Chihuahua and the people who work for her were concerned, the display was done. Its purpose was to draw customers into the shop. They sat and stood in the shop and waited…for customers. Completely oblivious of the artificial orgy that their display was courting.

The women paused for a few seconds. They were disgusted. Their faces in their hands and screwed like suffocating raisins.

“Sasa huyo na matiti nje? Halafu ona venye wanaume wanamwangalia.”

Huyo? I am a thing. I am not a person. Jealousy…they were dying green. I thought they would shoo their male co-perpetrators away and run into the shop to raise  alarm. Instead, they saw me as a half naked, ill dressed mannequin that has the power to cover her boobies but refuses to do so. The permanent red smile on my face did not help my situation. Neither did my hazel dominatrix-dolly eyes. Thanks to the electric thing in my head, those eyes changed colour every other suggestive moment. 

A fibre glass model of a woman was their nemesis. I knew that I did not have the power to lift the Versage-Gappana. I suspect the intelligent of the lot knew the same thing but there is something about a crowd and the things it does to individual human thought process. The lawyer, the brain surgeon, the hobo, the City Council lady and the seventeen year old drop out, somehow, when together, end up thinking like merino.

As soon as they caught sight of me, the ones with children crossed the road without checking traffic. Cars screeched, buses hooted, children bawled. Curiosity turned heads and shoulders. All the people in the buses and the cars stared at me. Some laughed, others looked annoyed, very annoyed, two or three took a peek and then pulled their eyes back to their books and newspapers and the vulgar ones just kept looking, wearing the same desirous look that the men who stopped earlier wore.

A chain reaction. Who next? Death? The enigma with a scythe who would come to collect the souls that would sooner or later be hit by a motor cycle because they were so preoccupied with a mannequin’s titties? The Reaper, would probably also be distracted from his job by a fibre glass replica of a woman and for a few minutes more humans would be born and none would die. An unfavourable tip on his scale.

Three days and two nights, they spread the word. Mobile phone calls, short messages typed on keypads and sent to perverts and prudes indiscriminately. Facebook had varied photographs and comments. Twitter had hash tags and soon enough, I was a famous ‘disgrace’. Do not ask me how I felt throughout the fiasco because I do not have a heart like a human being’s.

The ironic bit is, as ridiculous as the brother in the pink HugWhoRE briefs looked, no one noticed him in all his plastic glory.

© Linda Musita 2012

Note: I had submitted this to an ebook enterprise last year. No book out yet, so I am taking my very free story back. Bullshit.

Failed attempt at a b c b

You're the big pumpkin in my small head; hallo-weed!
You're the elephant ear passing wind in my eardrum
You're the sneaky rat's nose sniffing out my cheesy
You're the swollen lips stung by my bee, honey rum

You're the toc but never after the tic
You're the almost there but not genau
You're the amputated city clock
Are you the lady now?

Linda Musita © 2013

Note: This is all I wrote during a poetry workshop with Lemn Sissay.

Bones

The antlers were long and they reminded me of the woman's nails. 
She sent me to carry this thing and I must carry it.

Linda Musita © 2013

Note: This is all I wrote during a creative writing workshop with Dinaw Mengestu.

Saint Honorius and the Pied Piper of Monrovia Pub

Patron saint of bakers and yadda and yadda and yadda and yadda. I hate that I am that bee. Not any special kamikaze bee. I am that bee that is confused for a big disgusting fly at the pastry shop. The bee that is stuck on the gritty chocolate smudged on a doughnut by that stupid woman that does not qualify as a pastry chef.  Her. She wears clothes fit for a security guard, down to colour and cut, with matching polythene- cotton on her head. I am that bee. I am Honorius, patron saint of a bakery right next to the pub that has a flute and its player for a show every single night.

He plays well. So well I want to be him because once you see me and judge me to be a fat fly, you run to that pub. Sit on a stool, your back to the one man flute act and nod your head to something that you should not be nodding your head to. That music requires you to sit still you Philistine. Yeah, I know I have never been inside the pub therefore I am guessing things but you look like the hood rats that try to prove that they are sophisticated when fuck knows they are not. Seated there ordering Kamikaze Cocktails in a third rate pub. Making the barman sweat, everytime you say, “One part vodka, one part triple sec and one part lime juice.” Vodka, Oranges, lemons and that brilliant albeit stupid flute.

©Linda Musita 2012

Note: This was meant for Fresh Manure , but they have not done shit with it, so I am doing shit with it.

Pink Plasticine

In my wiser days
I made a happy friend
My hands created beauty
Birds sung through her lips
Her joy was half irritating

©Linda Musita 2013

Note: I must write a poem, for a friend I neglected. 

Mash

Maybe the kitchen drill would help...

Drrrrrrrrrrrrrrrill

Sputter

Sputter

Wipe

Wipe

And the top of his head would be off and then she would get her wooden spoon and stir all his thoughts out.

She was the head cook. Her bum hurt for standing for so long in a kitchen so big.  And the man in the kitchen with her was doing very strange things. Maybe, his reaction to what she did to him on the previous night after he cleaned all the dishes.

Her job was to cook from 6am to 7pm and then watch him wash the dishes after breakfast, after lunch and in the evening, after supper. 200 cups, 200 plates and another 200 plates for a boarding school, making six hundred washes.

The previous night he washed the plates, then mopped the floor. As he was putting the mop away she blocked the closet door and when he turned his nose kissed her nose and he wanted to die. He was being sexually harassed. 

She held him by his wrist and led him to the chopping slab. A six foot long waist length stone from where she chopped vegetables and beef. She told him to lie on his back and unfasten his belt. He obliged. She looked him in the eye, maybe to make sure he did not falter or change his mind. He was locked by her toad eyes.

He unfastened his belt. She undid his button fly and took out his limp penis. It was small, shrivelled and very cold. Nothing pleasant but it would do. She glared at him before heading to the pantry.

She came back with a cup of oil.

He did not see it because his eyes were fixed on the cobweb bridges around the light bulb. He wondered why the heat from the bulb was not enough to singe the cobwebs. Bulbs were usually hot after being on for a long time. How did the cobwebs survive?

The oil was warm. He felt it on his penis and as it streamed down his butt crack, he knew that his light green trousers were in oil stains of trouble.  His brain protested but his body was stiffened by her hand. The hand was touching his penis. Now it held it up, now it asked the help of the other hand to hold the penis, now it tagged and pulled. It felt nice. It was painful. And then it felt nice again.

His brain stopped fighting. It  co-operated.

She watched his penis enlarge. The bigger it became the faster she pulled. The harder she held on. The harder she held on the faster the penis became something of a rolling pin.

The little engine that could-could-could-could.

The little engine that could-could-could-could, splatter-splatter-splatter-splatter milky oatmeal.

She went to the sink and washed her hands, dried them with a towel, applied hand sanitiser and left the kitchen. The children would have oatmeal for breakfast tomorrow. Two hundred small bowls of oatmeal.

***

Breakfast was oatmeal.The brats hated it. He did not appreciate washing bowls. Cups were easier to wash. Neither did he like how he thought that she was looking at the stain on his trousers. 

She was not looking at him, as he thought she was, not until until he started hopping up and down, dropping bowls, washing his face several times in the rinsing sink and giving her sideways glances.

It was a measly hand job. Not an orgy with nuns. His conscience should not be so damaged, she thought. But he kept at the madness. She wanted to ask him why he was thus agitated but they never spoke to each other and she was not going to make this the first time for conversation. 

After washing the lunch time dishes. He went into the pantry. He stayed there for half an hour. She waited for him to come out so that she could go in and get potatoes to prepare for the children’s supper. When he came out he looked up at the ceiling as he walked. She ignored this madness as well, went into the pantry and dragged out half a sack of Irish potatoes. She would peel those ones first and go back to the pantry for more potatoes.

He dried the dishes again. He wanted to do bad things to her too. Harass her and make them even.  Embarrass her. Make her lie on her back. Pour warm oil into her anus and stuff her like a turkey. He was being as forward as he could with the mating signals.  Women had to be wooed before being harassed, as far as he knew. But the woman just went on with her kitchening. Maybe he should do what she had done, just taker her because maybe she was a hermaphrodite who did not understand horny male signals. Hermaphrodites don’t get it, he concurred with himself. She was a hermaphrodite, he convinced himself. Force and not signals.

Wailing, thumping his chest, he hopped towards her. She stopped peeling the potatoes, put the knife on the sack and took the kitchen drill out of the drawer.

And cobweb bridges survived happily ever after.

©Linda Musita 2012

Note: I think in a previous life, I was a shiteful painter.

Doat

Dear Toad,

are you old How?
do you croak How?
are you ugly How?
do you eat How?

Sincerely,
Owl

© Linda Musita 2012

Note:  I know a toad. She lives in a bird house. Kuku.

Bowly

"Personally I find it obscene that girls should be taught that their status depends on the taste they can produce in boys' mouths." 

-R.D LAING-

1. When I was a little girl, I was severely bow legged and a boy in school who bullied the Vitamin D out of my leg bones, made them rattle and then dumped them in  a dark closet.
2. That was until the day my bow legged leg bones peeped through the closet keyhole and saw that his legs were bowed too.

© Linda Musita 2012

Note: I am not a feminist. I Deny.

Irrational Fucks

Love is rational

It must be rational

Otherwise it is that thing

That puts you in a bed

With nothing but your loose labia

No foreskin

And an open heart

Irrational fucks will follow

©Linda Musita 2012

Note: I am in love.