Olubunmi Fatoba

    How do we love in flames? How do we make love when we are caged in the thorns of yesterday's fog? How do we live without love? The way providence twists at the expense of moments made in the glory of "carpedium". All lost love has a similar story, of how hell and heaven were promised, of how you felt like the most desired object in the world, of how you let yourself fly in bare expressions. Can you remember the serenity of having a soul that rightly accords you all? Like the monarchy, you are showered in repetitive tenderness and how you only see the world as the object, nothing else thrills you, not even your family. You lived in that world full of just the two of you, full of the definition of love you knew, full of the present, full of tense romantic adventures. You told yourself, this is life, this is how to live. The day you stumbled on storms, you fought it together and you felt the relief of having someone supporting you and you thought you have arr

Manley lives in a disarrayed ton of routines; he goes about wavering applauses to the same sect that thrusted him. Where do we go when we die? A question that reigns in his mind with no certainty of getting a quick reply.  However, he works with a revelated transiency of life.  Like flipped pages lying like the horse in that green towel, he shunned away the closure of the solitude breeze and attempted to put on a paragon of metaphors.  Living life is never a satisfied one, rather, a pile of thorns, with a distance hatred towards sustaining clinched expectations. Why do we live like this here?  Manley with his pours of questions about existing would never halt his quests. His life is like a train that only breathes in a track, only, extolling the normalized life cycle, of how-to breath, of how to do and get this at a particular time, of presented responsibilities, even when to pass away. He becomes a victim of passing days created from the carcass of yesterday's choice. Apparently,

My friend told me, "Bloom, Keep this blog like a diary, see it like a journey towards self improvement".  The difference here is the world would get to read this diary. Art is from within, also creativity, attimes, just allow you fly and watch. "to be the me in me is this voice"

I ‘pate to lift the weight in my whole its, comical how steadily we outgrown cloth clothed us from onset maybe circumstances environment overtly, sedately and seductively create a-self from self.      

when i die let my name live let my lines fly beyond eons. let me be remembered.   when i die, pass me across ages tell them how i lived, how i hugged pains alone in my chambers, how i prayed for the return of akanni, how i birthed words, how art held me.   when i die let me be known for something whether for poetry or christology, let my life not be in vain.    when i die take no pain take the gain in my tracks and raise another of me.   when i die. let my lines pass eons like achebe, like asakel let my poetry grow in your hearts.       

In a second,  all could turn. The process of becoming appears in stages, unplanned like a fog, misty creature.   Drowned in self-melancholic cut from the norm in a second,  the world changed, I transformed, The pandemic  ushered our shifts.   The old tales of desire of fantasy, of simplicity   and pureness birthed from the game of puzzle   To the object that left home to thorns, has also created hills of mares in that same home   May we breathe in our desire, may this era fulfill our becoming, may we find a pleasant object.   On a day of self and meditations, I discover   the totality of a long starvation,  a  foreshadow of uncertain tomorrow,  t he mind in unending caves of resolution.    

  I marvel At your dancing skirt, Your shimmering feet Your lamed mind.   I arrow gazes at you, To seek the world lying in you. The one that lures you from us. Like a climate shift.   your eyes walk to embrace my gaze, and it uncovers the   shallowness of your state.

                                                                        HU         MANI                                         TY                                                What is literature without a society filled with diverse characters? What is humanity without lensed levity. At times, we watch them tainting us with their cheats and shitty shits. They are humble in their callosity. In expressed generosity, they step on our already tattered life, leaving us to cuddle more slums.  What has become of my nation that was birthed from a fruitful juice, bathed in the foundation of our satisfied ancestors. Now, it is being washed with the infidel hands of the unfaithful son of fathers. What is life filled with the only glory of existing? For a while, the organism, like a blur to humanity, until beings became a subjected prey to their creations. We all wake up one day to hear a news, "quarantine, no more work, no movement", no vibes to live. A general decision fo