Words I Like To Throw Around These Days

 

Tired
Of being tired
Sitting long hours in
My own cage staring at a blank screen
Doing nothing for hours on end
Waiting for the siren so I can go home

Time
That I waste
Sitting long hours in
My own cage staring at a blank screen
Doing nothing for hours on end
Waiting for the siren so I can go home

Pressure
That I feel
Sitting long hours in
My own cage staring at a blank screen
Doing nothing for hours on end
Waiting for the siren so I can go home

Inspiration
The life
That is sucked out of me
Because I am
Sitting long hours in
My own cage staring at a blank screen
Doing nothing for hours on end
Waiting for the siren so I can go home

Excuses
That I make
Because I am
Sitting long hours in
My own cage staring at a blank screen
Doing nothing for hours on end
Waiting for the siren so I can go home

Resilience
Because I endure
Sitting long hours in
My own cage staring at a blank screen
Doing nothing for hours on end
Waiting for the siren so I can go home

Hope
That one day I will get out of
Sitting long hours in
My own cage staring at a blank screen
Doing nothing for hours on end
Waiting for the siren so I can go home

© Sena Frost ’17

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Years

365 and a quarter days spent racing round a gigantic fireball

Revolutions made regularly

Spinning in perpetuity

I would say it runs in circles

Nay

Elliptical tracks are more our style

A top tilting its way round a familiar course

The yardstick called a year

In years

I am born

You grow

We live

They die

Sometimes we leap

A whole day awarded for you

We waste it

Nonetheless this course holds steady

A little blip in the Milky Way

Twinkling merrily in some alien sky

Years

Bring us together

Tear us apart

That even family becomes strangers

As bonds are loosened by the constant spinning

Yesterday’s trusting child becomes a suspecting adult

Years

Tilt me out of the circumference of your life

That a touch made today is a footprint at the beach;

Washed away

Years we’d rather forget

Filled with places we would rather not be and people we no longer are

Death and darkness in them

Years we remember

Filled with life

Sun and growth and all things nice

Where I remain inceptive

Immortal years stop not once for you

Years take the life

You painstakingly crafted something for yourself

A sudden leap sends you out of the cradle

And pop goes the weasel

We convolute

Wax and wane

Bloom then wither

As our own sense of time culls us

All in

365 and a quarter days spent racing round a gigantic fireball

Revolutions made regularly

Spinning in perpetuity

I would say it runs in circles

Nay

Elliptical tracks are more our style

An eternal present

For what exactly?

Who knows,

Go with the flow

Image courtesy google images

© Sena Frost ’17

Dog Days are Shitty Days

Every day is the same. I wake up in the darkness. I debate whether I truly want to be at work today. I then go to the underground tank in the middle of the compound house where I live and draw water. Sometimes it took longer than normal because the rope was too frayed to hold up the bucket we used to draw the water. It meant fetching a big napkin to use as a makeshift rope. Woe betide whoever’s bucket fell inside the underground tank. It would take forever to get it back. When I finally make it to the shared bathhouse I like to take my time, continuing my mental argument. Even in the shower, I am lost in thought as the cold water rains down my belly, puckering up every pore. I’m developing a pot belly. Weird considering how I barely eat these days. I throw on whatever clothes my hands touch first then I sling my bag over my shoulder and head out.

Sometimes I lope to the railway which is a few hundred metres away. When I’m late I take my time to walk to the bus stop, if you can even call it that. The taxis have taken over the place and forced the tro-tro drivers to park in the middle of the road. I like to call them troskies after the parlance of us millennial pidgin speakers. The police who come there sometimes sack them, most other times they just look on; their pallid reflective shirts making them look awkward in the fray. It was a different prospect getting a trosky. I work at Circle, and the troskies going there were regularly irregular. It didn’t matter how early you rose; there is no telling when one would show up or if it was full or not. We’d line up at the roadside, peering expectantly for any sign of a trosky with the swivelling arm of a mate.

I try to keep to myself a lot. Most of the time, I listen to music. Anything to distract me from the gnawing pain in my heart. It’s like an unsettling itch. Like something has moved from its rightful position. Yeah something has. My girlfriend just left me for another guy. A photographer who had promised to make her famous. “You’ve become so distant lately. You don’t even do the stuff you used to anymore.” She had wailed over the phone. The stuff she referred to was “gifts”; little wads of cash every other week for her to do her nails and look pretty and stuff. That was the last time we spoke. I could barely tell her anything at all. If I wasn’t talking about her in our conversations she wasn’t interested. I even wonder how we met. I think it was at a party when we were still in school. It was one of those nights where I had had a little too much to drink. She is a looker though. Five foot two, pear shaped with boobs like wild mangoes and a behind like wobbled like water balloons. She was smart, but wasn’t interested in anything intellectual. She’d rather talk about the latest fashion trends and whatever. After a couple of one night stands we hooked up and that was it.

I love her. Or I think I do. Over time she became more and more about the glam and less about us. I think she saw me as a rich kid who had so much money to blow. That was hard to deny. I mean I did live the good life on campus; always stepping everywhere in style, hitting club after club and sorting out any money issues that came with it. I think I was just scared to let her know it wasn’t like that. In making it all about the money, I suppose I had this coming. The sex barely made up for anything. If anything it became less and less till she finally dumped me. I’d miss her rump though. A memory of me stabbing away as she bounced up and down in my dingy room when she came over flitted through my mind. I switched playlists. I’ve developed a taste for loud electronic music. The more tingly the sound, the better.

I probably have the worst of luck. I hardly ever get a good enough trosky to work. Between being perched on the spare tyre or cramped up in the back seat while a stout old lady or cantankerous man spread themselves in the desired edge seat. In the trains, I’d most often stand throughout the journey to my stop. I shouldn’t complain about that but it gets to me every time. I loathe it when the trosky drivers decide to take the untarred shortcuts in a bid to outrace other troskies for more passengers. They jarred my bones and made my cramped plight even more pitiful. I’d dream of owning a car but I don’t even know how to drive. All the potential driving license money going down one frizzy haired drain. Or used to.

The morning traffic on the ride to work could be interesting. Coupled with the music banging on my ear drums I’d see things and imagine them as pictures or poems in my mind’s eye. Even when my eyes watered from the pain from the metal frames pressing against my shins or kneecaps I’d look out the window. I try to keep as much change as possible because the thieving mates never lost an opportunity to increase the fare or withhold small change any chance they got. Never mind the unwashed bodies and smelly armpits, I needed those coins. Their unpredictability was the one thing predictable about them. Looking out sometimes gave away the newest trends in town. Big shiny billboards with all sorts of nonsense scrawled on them; the religious ones anyway. The new buildings with their colourful alucobond frames looking like something out of a Lego movie were particularly interesting. Most of them had the ubiquitous “Space to let” sign draped over their sides. Space which I’d have to sell my kidney to rent for a couple of months.

The new apartment signs rankle me the most. Shiny building blocks with nice views and astronomical prices. Certainly not worth me busting a spleen. I take careful note to see my favourite hated billboard. Hers. Yeah, she modelled for this herbal toothpaste thingy and they loved her for it. For me it was the beginning of the end. Her dimpled smile winked at me, reminding me of how her overnight popularity and need to look the part took her further away. She wasn’t even paid a dime for the billboard; or so she claimed. I sighed heavily and thought of work. Work was in a cramped office space in downtown Accra. I worked as head of outdoor services. It’s just a fancy name for delivery boy. We delivered sanitary items to hotels and corporate offices all over. I’m only the head because I can’t drive. Too smart to let go and too desperate to demand a higher wage, I feel stuck here often. All I did was stamp and verify, stamp and verify.

My boss is an asshole. She was a portly woman in her late forties. Never married and always had a scowl on her face. She strung insults from her thin lips like toothpaste being squeezed dry. Every conversation with her had a dollop of biblical quotes in them. I suspect she really hopes to get married. We break every Wednesday because she goes to midweek service at one of the churches in the neighbourhood. Every third Friday of the month was a half-day because she had to go to Kasoa for a special deliverance session from some new-fangled pastor there. She would be pretty if she smiled. I don’t remember ever seeing her smile. Her attitude bordered on outright hostility though.  I always wonder how she kept getting clients. News through the grapevine said she got her best clients from gay people and regularly gave them all sorts of jobs if they came around. All I had to do was listen when the godawful music from the radio in her office went very high. Judging by its frequency when we had female clients visiting, I think it’s true.

The pay stinks. I’ve come close to quitting so many time but my mom tells me to stay “because there are no jobs anymore.” The ex-girlfriend used to take up half the amount every month. I remember having to deal with money launderers because she wanted an iPhone 7 for her birthday. I still haven’t been able to pay off that debt. The scars crisscrossing my potbelly remind me every time it gets cold. Rent and food and transportation take up the rest. I don’t remember the last time I saw my friends or went to the movies or had a drink. It’s virtually impossible to. I subsist every single month. Most of the time I look good so my poverty hardly shows on my face. My mom (bless her soul) brings me new clothes every month from when she goes shopping for things for her boutique. I haven’t been to church in forever. I’m just too tired from working six days a week. I need money. Trouble is I need money to make money

I have a dream. My dream is to be a photographer. Not because of her or the fact that her new boyfriend is one. My friends who are into it are making some serious dough I think. I see the posts on Instagram sometimes. Seeing the smiling pretty girls I’m hardly ever going to talk to was nice sometimes.

Going on social media drains whatever credit I manage to buy on my phone so I keep it to a minimum. It’s also a good check so I don’t see the ex’s smiling visage splattered everywhere. I hate those motivational WhatsApp BCs which circulate round. They remind me of a time when I had tried to be very religious and tried the supposed straight and narrow path. I just turn off my data so I hardly ever see all that BS. I think she’s blocked me on WhatsApp. My messages don’t go through anymore. I miss sexting her and the nudes she used to send me in. Those moments were the only true distraction I had. The nudes always preceded her coming over for a booty call. I’d let go as we drummed away, sweaty palms tracing her curves and tickling her back. I remember the taste of her mouth and the way she wound her waist as we congressed on the wall. She rose pale in the light streaming in from the streetlight as we wordlessly made love over and over again. We never used any protection even when she was cheating on me. Forgive me. It’s the only thing I have any appetite for. I would never eat my toffee in its wrapper. I pushed the door to the office open and set my bag down.

Stamp and verify. Stamp and verify. Ten hours later I picked up my bag and stole out of the office. If you don’t leave quietly my boss would make you stay in and pray with her till she was ready to go home. She usually leaves at nine pm.

Travelling back home is my favourite part of my shitty routine. There’s a tranquil beauty that sets in the city after five pm. The orange hues reflected on the fancy buildings and silhouetted others. Mentally I’d frame them in pictures ready to be shot. I remember I used to take pictures with my phone until I was mugged while doing that. It was funny. I felt a knife between my ribs and a hand pulling the phone away. I didn’t bother to resist. I haven’t attempted taking photos since. Sometimes the beauty is lost on me while I’m waiting in a queue at the station. I wonder what keeps the troskies so long. It gets annoying when people try to cut the queue or when the silly station masters break it up on the premise of double queueing. It never fails to throw me back to secondary school. Another negative collection of memories I would rather not recollect. When the trosky comes in though I try my best to get a window seat.

Perched at the window, I’d listen to my heartbreak music while letting my mind drift in the kilometres being eaten away. I would not have that pleasure this evening. My phone buzzed and I lifted it to my face. In the quasi darkness of the trosky a single text message notification illuminated my face. “I think I’m HIV positive.”

I screamed.

 

© Sena Frost ‘17

image courtesy google images

 

Careful, Son

This is inspired by some early morning banter by friends. I tried to keep it real. Fugly Mofos, thanks!

Careful son
Don’t come at me like you mad at yo daddy
I am yo pappy
Come here son
Smoke some poppy
Lemme tell you something son
The world holds no favours
Come see conquer
Get yo own chocolate factory Willy Wonka
Give it away cos life ain’t about riches
Don’t give it away
Stay away from them bitches
Careful son
If you lay with dogs you rise with fleas
Scrub yo self and wear some fleece
A hater see you he flees
Scared of yo shadow
They freeze
Envy begets lust
Lust gonna dig you a grave like vengeance
Leave it to the Lord
No occult séance
Rest in knowledge like science
Just keep yo head down son
You don’t need nobody
Either they support or you rise alone
Yo friends ain’t yo friends if they can’t be real
Bring you in like fish on a reel
When you going wrong
If they only witchu when you get yo money
Then you need new friends
Fuck day 1
If they don’t help yo one day
Drop them on the wrong side of the one way
Get high like steam
Pushing that locomotive
They see you they go choo choo
You ain’t stopping
Cos the night train rides for the right brain
Careful son
Don’t look down on yo self
Just remember
You ain’t no god
All men must die
Valar Morghulis
Build yo castle
Raise the portcullis
Be modern
Work medieval
That means long tables and laughter throughout the night
Don’t do little and talk more
Be a giver
Ready to take somebody outta fright
Don’t do it for fame
Not riches
Do it cos it right and you loves what  you do
Not for bants or nothing else
People gonna come for you
Yes men
Oliver Twist
Vampires
Leeches that wanna drink yo blood
Let them taste nothing but yo success
When they come to you
Let them talk about how you opened their minds not their breeches
Sealed the breaches
Showed them love not bitches
I love you son
I always gotchu
Stay strong
Stay bold
And when yo can’t go on no more?
Sink on your knees and pray
Rise like the sun
Be good
Be God
Be careful son

© sena frost ‘17
Father & son
Image courtesy google images

A Twin Story

I knew a pair of twins once
Fair and bewitching 
Witty and full of charm
They were alike in many ways but one
They were as like day and night 
While I was drawn to the dark night
The day bright was no less delightful 
We had many talks 
While the day wove her tales of light 
The night spoke of stars bright 
Alas 
I fell in love with them both 
And in the trouble of choosing either 
I ended up with neither 
For as I pondered and floundered
They met strangers in their ceaseless wander 
Full of wonder 
The day went with the warm sun 
And the night kissed the moon man
Poor me!
And with my heart rent asunder
I looked at them from afar 
Unable to speak
But seeing them full of joy
I smiled a tear streaked smile 
And wondered where all the time went 
Because I miss them terribly 
~ Bluebird & Pee

Image courtesy Pinterest 

© Sena Frost 2k17

Untitled 9

I have never felt as much pressure to make something of myself as I do now. I realize I do not want to join the higher education and employment mill. I also realize I am not as feral as I think I am to break the mold yet. The only thing I can do is write. If you feel like you’re sinking with all the dead-weight of broken promises then this rant is probably for you. If you mind your own business and keep slugging away, maybe one day we will escape this harsh reality.

At least that’s what I think

1

My eyelids flickered open

It was dark

The familiar dark

I let out a sigh and shuffled off my pallet

My feet crept

Searching for my slippers

2

The piss streamed into the bowl

Clinking gold against the clear porcelain

Morning wood handily tucked away

I yawned

Bucket in hand to join the queue

It was mercifully short

3

I dunked my head with water again

It chilled me

Again and again

My skin was numbed

But my eyes smarted from lather

Oh what a bother!

4

I spied the clock

As I straddled the stool

The brush scrubbed merrily

The worn leather smiling with crowfeet

I buckled on my belt

And spied the clock

5

Tro-tro rumbling through my favourite music

Standing at the main gate so Elton the guard would wave me in

Pushing paper

Feeling the angst building up in my throat

Almost like the boil throbbing on my badly shaved chin

Another day flies by

6

Jostling against bodies

As I tighten my grip on my phone

Tro-tro rumbling through my favourite music

As my phone flickers with notifications

I trek the last mile home

All peace and music

7

Something more than this

I want it

A splash of colour staining the dour days

A glimmer of gold stealing through the doorways

I feel a lot of things

Lost when the preacher is on the radio

8

Angry when mama calls to split my pay check

Powerless when I have to join the queue

I don’t phone anybody anymore

I feel tired

But then how do you get tired from doing nothing?

9

Maybe I can try again

Face the sun with my skinny chest pouted

And a paunch which doesn’t reflect the belt it swallows whole

Maybe I will find joy

Because I grate my teeth

Baring them at enemies hidden in the dark

10

The familiar dark

I am fighting

In a cage

I am in a never-ending queue

My dreams

I leave them in the dark

11

Sometimes they grin through the worn leather; crowfeet and all

I burst out into laughter sometimes

She likes the way I laugh

Says it’s like Christmas lights in June

But I hardly do that anymore

Always grim

12

Sometimes I dream

That there is an eagle on my shoulder

Yet I am the eagle

Then my eyelids flicker open in the dark

The familiar dark

I burst into laughter

13

Victim

Hero

Villain

All that bullshit

Whatever the fuck I am

I am alive

14

While I am still

Unbroken

I believe

A splash of colour staining the dour days

Will happen soon

A tingle of excitement ridges my spine when I think like that

15

I sleep

Dreaming of women with toothy smiles and wild mango breasts

And thatched pussies

Slow dancing while I slip between their brush and pluck their succulent fruits

I wake to queues of pisspots lining the path to fame

And people drinking readily from them

16

Life is one moment for me

Push paper

Work

Whine and fuss

And when I get home and sleep and wake

Repeat

17

I feel like a rock perched on a mountain

And I gave shelter

Who shelters the rock in a storm

When it thunders and crackles lightning

Under the purple skies

I landslide into ignominy when they aren’t looking

 

18

I feel fear

Wetting my pants

The pungent smell of shitting myself is a nightmare

I hobble when bowel pangs tear at me

Lest I make it a public spectacle

I will die of brittle pride

 

19

Fuck it

I will make it

More than anything

Even if life is showing me the middle finger

When I do the things I love I will be happy

At least that’s what I think

© Sena Frost 2k17

 

Daughter Of Man

 

Daughter of man

Blessed with a bosom capped with twin peaks

Emblazoned with dark tipped nipples

Lancing into my mouth

Jousting with the thrust of my tongue

Take me up into you
Take me into the place they call sin

The enclave hushed up by the priests

That none may speak freely of

That place

Where kings shorn themselves of their crowns

Take me into the place

Where Samson gave away his strength

Envelop me with your nether lips

That warm embrace the hedonist never forgets

 

Daughter of man

Blessed with a derriere so bountiful

Juggled by the sway of your hips

Lay me on your altar of gold

Pierce me with the dagger of your eyes

Wash me with the taste of your lips

Even as the fire of my loins burns

Erecting the tower of my pride

Babel reaching for the stars

Despite the flush of my cheeks

Teach me the ways of your castle

That I may lay my life down to defend it

 

Daughter of man

Adorned in the skin of the bronzed sands

Touched with the obsidian of the night

Caressed with the haze of a snowstorm

Let me into your infinite wetness

The ocean pacific of sweet loving

Animate my desire in your well of creation

So I can unlock the secrets of life

Hidden within the palaces of pleasure welled up in you

 

Daughter of man

Allow me to rappel those twin peaks

So I may embrace their dark tipped cupolas

Winding down like an acrobat

Let me overturn your mound

Tending the sweet spot

Of pleasure tendrils convulsing the cradle that is your body

In the throbbing of my need

Or the unwound coils of your want

In night or day

In the beginning and forever more

And at the height of our pleasure

We become like

God

 

© Sena Frost 2k17

image courtesy opinionatedmale.com