Madonna

For Friar Clifton 


Contraception!
Abomination!
Run to confession!
Failure....
an allergic reaction
to contraception!
Believe me.


Bind your legs
Mummify pudenda
And favour will fall
Immaculate conception
Holy Beldina Mother of Gina
"I am carrying your Lady.
Bow down to my image.
Your saviour is a woman.
Believe me."


Linda Musita © 2012


Note: Week two of the Michael Prose-Poetry Challenge. This one is inspired by Nduta and the eternal fun I will keep poking at Catholics...and religion.

Miss Understanding

Priggy met a boy

He kissed her brows

Smiled at her feet

Smoothed the dress on her lap

And broke her pinky heart

When he took the green bus

And went away to fight another man's war

Tonnie met a girl

She blushed, winked and blinked

Drew the world with her big toe

And broke his blue, blue heart

When she waved good-bye

 ...let him get on the green bus

And go away to fight another man's war

Linda Musita © 2012

Note: I am back with my things, yes. I shall be posting poetry every week thanks to an ego challenge with Michael . I have to prove that writing poetry is easy and he has to prove that writing prose is easier. He thinks that poetry is a task for the gods and the chosen few. I think that prose can work your brain and hand so hard you lose both. I have proof.

The challenge: I write poetry for six months. He writes prose for six months. Let's see who will come out wiser.

Father Tombana's Virgin Statue

Why do you refuse to answer me when I ask you if you are not a virgin when you know that you are not a virgin?

Simple, I cannot tell you I am not a virgin when you ask me if I am not a virgin because if I do you will know that I am not a virgin.

But I must know.

What must you know?

Whether or not you are a virgin?

Why?

Because the Virgin in the chapel looks exactly like you.

She is a statue. I look like a statue?

A little…

Really?

Really.

Okay.

Again, are you a virgin?

You know that I cannot tell you that I am a virgin.

Why?

If I tell you that I am a virgin, you will surely know that I am not a virgin because you asked me why I refuse to answer you when you ask me if I am not a virgin when you know that I am  not  a virgin.

But the statue…You look like the statue.

The statue is a virgin?

Yes.

Well how do you know? Though, I think, if you could, you would allow yourself to cause the Virgin statue to lose its virginity?

Blasphemy!

Not blasphemy, Father Tombana, just common sense.

Linda Musita © 2012

NOTE: I talked about sex a lot today.  However, this post has a deeper, heart wrenching message that only an intelligent cat will understand. Sometimes the girls get a bad dish too. Holy Mary Mother of God.

Confessions of a Masturbating Twelfth Man

“Bless me Father for I have sinned. It has been  eight years since my last confession. These are my sins…rather, this is my sin. I am a hockey player. I have been for three years. I play with, a team, Macho Paradise. Eleven men on the first team and I am the twelfth man. A substitute. I have been on the 'bench' for these three years. When I play, it's usually for the last twenty minutes when the team has scored a comfortable number of goals or when they have scored none and one of the eleven wants to sit those minutes out. Nothing sinful about being a substitute, Father. However there is something that the enemy does with an idle mind. The mind of a twelfth man who has two halves, thirty five minutes each, seated on the ground to watch his team mates play, score and tap sticks for victory dances. The fields do not have benches (only when we play at the astro turf stadium do I get to sit on  a concrete bench). A substitute with big stick bags all around him, a stick lying at the seventy six degree angle between his legs and extra balls for practice, strewn around. Green balls, red balls, and white balls . Where is the sin in this? Well, boredom and the lack of attention plus the illusion of  privacy provided by the big stick bags tempt me to pleasure  myself. So I rub the head of the 38" hockey stick against my privates. Sometimes it  feels so good I extend to the taped splice. When play is on the far end of the pitch, I take advantage of the solitude to  hook and pull and hook and pull and hook and pull and hook and hook and hoook and pull till my shorts are wet and I have to wear my track pants to hide the shame. Occasionally I sit on the balls and move in short circular motions, reminiscent of a Ugandan woman dancing the baganda dance in slow motion moving her waist and never shaking her shoulders. Worse, when the team is bending over in circular unison to bless the match and  my team mates bang their sticks on the ground as they chant the 'syke-a syke-a syke-a', I bend too but make sure the grip of the stick is between my legs in the guise of holding the stick in place as my left hand rests on the shoulders of a team mate and the other pretends to bang my stick. As usual with this type of sin, Father, the guilt creeps in after the pride that comes with improvisation and the bursts of joy that accompany the powerful sensations. The guilt of  mono-intercourse. So overwhelming I never look my team mates in the eye. When they hit the balls, I suffer. When they borrow my stick after breaking their sticks on an opponent's shin, I feel naked. I believe that I will stop sinning if they let me play.Problem is, they never let me play...and I love the game so much, I cannot quit. I am sorry for these sins...rather, this sin and all the sins I can’t remember.”

Father shifts on his seat.

"Sexual purity. Something we all thrive for, my child. You and I in equal measure.Believe me when I say, your sin is much sooner forgiven than my own sins.Go in peace."


"Thanks be to God."


The twelfth man picks up his stick bag and finds his way to the door that is marked 'Gents'. Father walks off to teach an acolyte class.


Linda Musita © 2011

Warning: All rights, sticks and holes are reserved.

Beyond Reasonable Doubt

"Stand up little girl, a broken heart can't be that bad."

- From the song 'To Be With You by 'Mr. Big (The Band)-

confound them

they see frailty,

a bony babe illuminating an SOS 

oh and they laugh, fits and fits of laughter

mistake my silence and indifference

for insecurity, defeat and denial

i smile when they stick out dog wet tongues

i giggle when they spit on my fine clothes

i laugh when they kick my high heels with their worn out sneakers

the burden,

the burden ,

the burden, is twice upon them

to prove beyond reasonable doubt

that they are not

everything they think me to be

and while they strive

i thrive

Linda Musita© 2011

Note: A few days ago I discussed Gustave Flaubert's, Madame Bovary  with a well read friend. We both agreed that Emma was a tad too gullible when it came to Rodolphe. I admitted falling for some of the lines he used to 'woo' her while at the agricultural show and confessed that I too, like Emma, am gullible...sometimes. Her reaction, "Linda Musita, gullible?". Yes, I am human. I get  my heart in twists too. And today, I am not in the mood for threats...but respect my copyright anyway*mwaaah*

Violencia

Remanded in quicksand
South are men at arms caressing M 60 machine guns
North is a contingent, hand-ling napalm bombs
East…east lie 23 armored tanks
West, masked and bearing the semblance of space men
Stand 10 pongos, ready for biological warfare
The airspace dinging with battle planes
Extremely pregnant and ready to bear ballistic missiles

“Consume her thoroughly!” orders the Generalissimo
“Leave nothing but vapeeeouurrr”

Surrounded, lacking a point of exit
The sand swallowing her knees greedily
Insatiable and wet
The southern aims
The northern prepares to swing and sling
The eastern bears in with the migraine rumble
Of its metallic monsters, shaking the theater of war
Provoking the sand to consume her bosom
The western unplugs 2000ml chemical flasks
And the pregnant planes go into labor

There then, she sinks into irrelevance
Her shoulders already enveloped in blanket heavy wetness
At the center of enemy territory
A single cadet lost to my battalion
Dying without penitence and absolution
A victim of the best arms

Yet, lo behold!
Her last sight is the Phantom Knight
Breathing fire, spitting sulfuric bombs
Riding to her deliverance
He pulls her by her groping strands of hair
And cultivates a sulfuric kiss of life upon her still lips

His embrace? Might it be safer?
Might it really?
Violencia? Answer me!

 Linda Musita© 2010

Note: There are battles that I never fight e.g battles with pathetic women for/over a man. There are wars that I ignore and cover with blankets e.g wars with my siblings. Legal battles, however, I love to fight hi hi hi.The civil kind that earn me money whether or not I have registered  my copyright.

Adam's Apple

Paintings of Adam and Eve show that each has a belly button (navel or umbilicus). Think about it.

-ITM-

Exiled. Naked. He looked up the apple tree. Boredom and a talkative, nagging woman were his punishment. His sin; questioning the existence of The Enigma after another cruel desert storm . Eden is a vegetative hell hole that offered nothing else but trees and fruit. He missed home. He missed the food, the camels, the dryness, the mirages, the confusion and his dysfunctional polygamous family unit. His father was a rolling stone that gathered no moss but a lot of fungi and virus that explained the old man’s loose nuts, the boils on the mothers’ lips and their itchy vaginas.

“Hey Adam, you are the man and by default the smarter of the pair?” Eve asked as she plucked an apple from the tree.

“Go figure,” why wouldn’t she just keep quiet? Did she have to ask those questions; closed yet wide open questions. Questions that led to more questions that he alone had to answer.

“Alright,” apple in hand bent over his head, naked, her privates covered by a mass of kinky-curly black hair. She had abnormally large areolae that made her breasts look like  half rotten coconuts. He did not like looking at her. He closed his eyes.

“Adam, I think that worms come from an apple. They do not infest an apple. Instead the apple gives birth to them. You know, like a mother after nine ripe months?”

“No Eve, I do not know.”

“Adam, you liar,” she stands straight.

“You do not have to keep saying my name every time you speak. It’s just the two of us here, you milk- less goat.” He rolled over and lay on his stomach. A man should not be forced to look up at a woman, especially when she is standing upright and nude.

“Adam, why are you so unkind?” She asked and sat next to him slightly bothered by the shade of the tree. She missed the desert heat. Why did The Enigma choose her to start a cursed race with this unimaginative sod?

“I am not unkind. You talk too much and think only when you are asleep. What would it cost me to have you quiet for…say...an entire moon?”

“Adam, you could help me prove that an apple mothers a worm or twin worms or triplet worms or a multitude of worms. I am certain that it will be a groundbreaking theory. A theory a lot like the Chicken-Egg Theory that puzzles your father.”

“You are as crazy as he is, I can see. Where do you suppose you will put that apple. There is no place here that is not already infested by worms that will eat your silly apple. The ground is burrowed with them, the tress and flower bushes camouflage them…Really, Eve? Do you want to prove that the worm is so ungrateful as to eat his own mother?”

She looked around. He was right. Defeated she transferred her eyes to his bare back and left them there, transfixed. An hour went by. He was grateful for the quiet.

“Adam, I have it!” she yelled, fell on her back, laughed, waved her legs instead of her arms, swung her arms instead of her legs, created unnecessary commotion.

“Holy Enigma! Affray! Affray! Why shout and kick? ” Her shrilly proclamation had interfered with his peace.

“Adam, if you want me quiet, we will have to put the apple on your back. You do not have worms…and well, if you do, they cannot wiggle out through your skin and attack the apple before it bears.”

“So?”

“Adam. Let us strike a saliva handshake- disgusting body fluids type of deal. Binding and hard to go back on. I will shut my trap if you let the apple sit on your back for an entire moon.”

“How will I function? Release my bladder? Eat my food? Stretch my limbs?”

“Okay, Adam, I will take those four questions and assume that you don’t want the deal.I, consequently,  will keep talking. I will talk without ceasing. Rumble, nag, chatter, squeak and shriek till the day or night you die.”

He knew she was capable.

“Alright, we have a binding contract.”

Adam spit on his hand. Eve wiped her pudenda then her armpits. They shook hands.

She put the apple on his back. He was happy for the calm but wondered if he would still be fine after the moon and whether after that same moon, he would have to bear her probably stinky loud mouth again?

Linda Musita © 2011


Note: I have a feeling that no one will want to be associated with this blasphemy or pass it off as their own...aside from myself. Nonetheless, all rights are reserved

Adultery

I have thought about you,
every single day of this fortnight.
You are my new fascination and as a principle,
I write about my stimulants.

So on the final sabbath of this fortnight,
I sat on my desk,
with my feather,ink and parchment
ready to pour out my thunderous feelings
inform the world of my savage desires.
Tell of your appetizing human landscape
and how your anthems make my heart run amok.

Your image was stuck in my head,
and I arrogantly assumed; as usual,
that the words would flow out easy-peasy.
But Alas!
No words!
I had bumped into what educated scribes call a writer's block.

Hysteria set in!
For the first time in my pen-pusher's life,
 I lacked words!
"Tyranny!" I thought.
"Who is this fiend of a man that leads me to betray Prospero My Pen?!"
You refused to get out of my mind and onto my parchment.
You stood firm in my tiny head,
filling every brain cell with your presence,
leaving no room for my words,
which words define my existence
and give Prospero and I grand earthly purpose.

This meant that chances were, i was being unfaithful to my Prospero.
A cheating partner!
Dispeakable, unworthy harlot!
An immoral shameless bed-hopper!
Jezebel's kind.

So I had to select,
between you: fresh faced and oh so kissable
and my faithful Prospero,
who heals my soul and occasionally feeds my tummy.
Predicament, ha?

With a heavy sobbing heart,
I rejected the well set up, majestic, husky anthem man,
that you constitute,
and chose my Prospero.

Pronto! the audacious writer's block,
crumbled like biscuit,
and I wrote.....
till I ran out of ink. 

Linda Musita © 2009

NOTE: When I was younger I wrote like this. Thanks to books, Gideon Chumo and exercise, I am a better writer. As amateurish as the poem may be, all rights are still reserved muahahahaha!

Old Man Passenjer

The bus is hardly full. Thirty three passengers sat still each mulling over something that the other knew nothing about. First stop, Nairobi Hospital. Next stop Nairobi Women’s Hospital. The passenger count has dropped to twenty. They are all quiet except the occasional banter between the conductor and his driver.

“Mwangi man! That big, black and very  black black-out yesterday had me banging my head on the wall”, says the conductor very much aware of the Caucasian woman two seats away.

“Ochi me I was so angrie I started counting my fingas…one two, dhree, four, bloodie faye…..wapi tthitima?!” he answers with his right hand off the steering wheel as he demonstrates the counting.

“Eh! Kenya Pawa and Lightening Company! And we pay billssss!!”

“Bloodie fuckayng idiots! We shouuund carry thewm on wheel-o-barrows to ndhe ndams. Make them kojorea the fuckayng howles and pronduce power!”

Ochi laughs.

“Sasa why are you laugheyng and I am not njoking! kihii wewe!”

Ochi swallows and plays with the coins in his pocket. He is uncircumcised. The truth hurts. The bus goes down the Kilimani hill.

“Bangaldesh!” an old man yells.

“Unashuka Bangladesh mzee?”Ochi asks.

“Hapana makende ya kuku wewe! I am reminiscing and it is none of your mother's business either.”

“Ssssychotic octogenerian!” Ochi growls and seemingly pleased with himself  turns his head, makes eye contact and smiles at the Caucasian female.

The old man spits and goes back to his memories.

“Bangladesh……sweet Bangladesh of old.”

Linda Musita © 2011

Note: Today I toned it down. Some of you are pitiful  scaredy cats that needed a break from the grotesque. Also it is a happy day, I flirted shamelessly and loved every minute therefore in that spirit I refrain from copyright related threats.

Naughtie Your Feline

Puurrrr am a likkle naughty pussy cat
might you sit by me?
So i can share your flush and blush
and plot a devious ploy
on what part of you i ought to squeeze and release
..first then second and a possible negotiable third


Puurrrr am a likkle naughty pussy cat
lean closer so i can munch you a bit
nibble your big elephant ear
and take a mighty mouthful of your suppley neck
rest my tongue on Adam's apple.

Puurrrr am a likkle naughty pussy cat
might i place my curvy right calf
upon your drumstick left? Oh drummer!
So you may do as you darn well fancy with both?
Even run the long three-legged dance, if you please.


Puurrrr am a likkle naughty pussy cat
I bet you would like me to draw Cupid's Torch,
on your bare unbruised back,
with my cute ovaly sharp claws?
Scrooooohhhhhhh, scraaaahhhhhh.
I shall create art. I promise.


Puurrrr am a likkle naughty pussy cat
I shall let you drink from my saucer.
If only you let me bounce and twist on a high stool,
pray that you shalln't cover your eyes
but ogle and partake of my 'Puss in Stiletto Boots' gyrations.


Meow, don't be a mousey, i beg.
Tame this likkle naughty pussy cat.


Linda Musita©  2010 

WARNING: I get catty when my rights are infringed!Sccrooooh!