The first time we kissed there was no rainbow neither the feel of butterflies dancing in my stomach. There was no music: nor golden specks of sun rays in the morning as it perched through dew. The beaconing of hope and flicker of desires of what was yet to be, burnt vehemently in our eyes; yet still remained elusive. But the angst,  the blood rush in my veins as our senses heightened, drove us to a distant world. A world broader than ourselves. Where, like waterlily on shores we could float. Lest we forgot to close our eyes. 
There was silence.  Nothing new. But the rhythm of our lips as they munched against one another in soft abrassion. The tasteless taste of saliva as they exchanged greetings in a two way traffic along a busy street; Was accompanied  by the natural scent of animals breathing ghastly; the sweat that formed the creases of their beings. Nothing ever came close to the power of sniffed glue till thy moment. The odour of our smell mattered not anymore.  This world, only but temporary, heeded better promises than begging for change along the streets.
Vehicles hooted. Mates, caught up in brawls over money, drugs,  or somebody took more than he ought to; more than once hurled bitter words against themselves. At night, the chaotic streets tend to be calm and kind, but not to my kind. In darkness We awoke as we keep tabs on the streets. Always out to make livelihood from the lives of the unkinds who carelessly become our prey. Patrol officers always on the watch,  they consider us as lost course. The masses distaste my kind. Enmity exists between my kind and the police. Shots frequently ricochets. Two days ago a stray bullet maimed One of us,  an eight year old boy. They called the press saying it was “robbery with violence, the authority had to act quick”. Shame. We are the infidels.
In chaos such as this, we find peace and happiness in our ownselves; however infinitesimal. Here, lies my crib,  my space.  No furniture but just piles of rags which plays the part of a bed. It’s dark. Needles for administering narcotics nakedly punctuates the floor. Here we lie. Assuming it’s the perfect place to be.  Oblivious to the sounds of cockroaches and rats in a hit and run on empty cans of whisky. There’s silence not anymore.  Her long dark nails embeds my back; scratching my skin, peeling off layers of my epidermis. My fingers braze her unkempt hair.
The first time we kissed we were high on glue; in our precipices it made us strong, made us who we are, to break the chains of hunger and forget of the outside world. We knew no better when to stop nor what   next. Duty was calling; I had to pull myself from her and be on the watch as others slept. This is my home. Dark, saddened with melancholic hues. This is a forgotten world where those who dwell survive. Not everyone thrives.

Phill Ibsen 

(Master Of Descriptions) 




*(Session 1)*
Pin point everything you detest about death; like a butcher, lace them up! Place them on the table; one by one we wanna cut them into pieces! Sieve them! Feed them to the stray dogs if we have to. Or perhaps; whence the verdict is given; carry death high on our shoulders; praise him; beat drums and sing victory songs.
Death is on trial; handcuffed; in a frail body that supports itself with a stick; he feebly walks along the hallways into the courtroom; where the masses await! His skin, visibly pale, shows no signs of life; He makes his presence known; he talks less, but even in his speechless traits, silence envelopes in the midst! The masses who thirst for his blood; constantly shouts;
“Guilty! Guilty! Guilty!”;
while spurting mucously thick saliva on the defendant; oblivious of the court rules; are mad with rage! But this doesn’t bother him too!

Onto ye! Where are the plaintiffs?
“All Rise!!”
The judge makes an entry; He is rather a huge old man, with round glasses that slightly suspend itself on the nape of his puffy nose; leaving space between his eyebrows and his glasses; he’s slow to everything! Slow to sit; slow to speech; slow to think! But quick for food. His face, graced with cholesterol. His belly sags; none of his robe befits him; his belly button protrudes revealing his hairy stomach. But this too we’ve become accustomed to. He is good at his work. He’s of sound mind.
The masses are the plaintiffs; in existence are the victims of death, stakeholders of death and policy makers!
Heads down like hens scrapping into the ground; Each group conversing amongst themselves.
Meanwhile, opposite the jury, stares death. He smiles deviously like he owns the court. Yes he does! He summoned everyone here, or yet he volunteered to be the accused. Everyone knows him. Everyone abhors him. The CNN, BBC… The camera’s are on. The world is watching; *”Breaking news: A trial for death.”* This is what he wanted. An audience for his muse.
“Can we have silence in the court?!!!”
The murmurs dim away slowly.
As though in an agreement; the rest of the policy makers sit back as their representative rise to speak.
*POLICY MAKER:* “We think we have a solution on how to deal with death…”
The jury draw attention to him. As silence prevail. Even death himself seem to be perturbly curious. Curious about his end time.
*THE JUDGE:* “Let’s hear it”
*POLICY MAKER:* “To solve the mystery of death… To banish death from our societies then its prudent to erase its roots”
*THE JUDGE:* “Where are its roots? I’ll be delighted to know”
At this point, death has nothing on his defense; he didn’t prepare for this. He never scripted this part. He has no idea what’s on the table.
*POLICY MAKER:* The Coffin Makers!
The masses burst into uncontrollable laughter. Death on the other end; takes a deep breath as he rests his handcuffs on the bar. Deep inside, he says to himself, “it wasn’t life threatening anyway!”.
The judge hammers his gavel; at once order is restored.
*THE JUDGE:* Do you have plausible evidence to support you sir!??
*POLICY MAKER:* yes, your honor
He clears his throat as everyone awaits.
*POLICY MAKER:* we should pass a law that bars carpenters from making coffins. This is the reason why…..
Before he continue; A voice of a middle aged man sprouts from the masses. Dressed in a blue overall. Tooth brown with tarn. His shaggy hair laced with particles of timber. On his ears lies a pencil. He speaks with vigor.
“Then what!!? You’ll feed our family for us? We don’t ask people to die. We don’t advertise the coffins. Its the people who place orders… Young man I respect you but watch how you trade….!!!”
As if he’s the priest signalling the congregation to hurl Amen; the rest of the carpenters in unison, “Yess! That’s right!!”
*THE JUDGE:* (As he slams the gavel) This trial shall end today. The court will go into a recess for 30 minutes, to allow the carpenters and the policy makers come to a compromise.
(Slams the gavel again)
Lonely; death looks around in sympathy. He has no one to care for him.
As the masses walk out of the courtroom. The judge takes 15 seconds to step from his chair. He whispers something along the lines of, “God. I’m starving” its inaudible. Nobody pays attention.
The court is now empty; only silence reigns. And death sits there unmoved. I ignore it as I finalise my notes.

Phill Ibsen

(Master Of Descriptions)



Son…respect a woman,

For you are a gentleman,

And not ‘coz she is a woman,

I remember his words.
Hold your blade up straight,

Taking smooth but firm strokes,

As you keenly look in the mirror,

For that’s how you shave your beard.
Give a firm handshake,

As your stance you maintain,

For in words nations have been built,

And many a like destroyed.
His words echo deep in me,

As I look into your eyes,

I see the same innocence I had,

I know my time to pass it on is nigh.


The following day the sun rose wearily 

Its warm rays darkened by the presence of him

My brother, my friend’s boy

Ruthlessly hitting on my door

Threatening to murder it

All in the name of a knock

A streak of sweat,

Pulled my arm back,

A shade of regret,

Pushed my mind blank,

The door gave in,

The gap between my lips went thin.

 In a near slow motion 

My neck refused to hold my head and face

So they obeyed gravity and went falling down 

Now coloured with a hue of pure shame 

I pondered, pensive i thought 

Why did it happen?

Now came along,

A price to pay,

What do I say?

I will be a father,

Should I state further,

How my brother and I,

Differ like ground to sky.

Surprisingly a smile easily formed on his lips

As he prepared his organs of speech

To tell me of the good news 

Of him getting a kid soon

To share his surname with 

To fill our tranquil environment 

With vibrant sweet noise 
I couldn’t help but congratulate

Deep inside a heated debate 

What if the unborn

Has staggered speech 

Has bow legs 

 A receding hairline 

And a short tallness? 

It then would be clear 

My athlete was on the finish line 

While my brother’s was on the mark 

Set to run an already won race

The big questions and answers 

Would be direct to one person

My Brother’s girlfriend
*© Maru_kim*


There’s more to this world

Other than just friendship,family

And all that creates relationships

There’s more to our brains 

Other than just thinking,meditating

And coming up with solutions

There’s more to our bodies

Other than just pleasure,bathing

And keeping ourselves clean

There’s more to this piece

Other than just enjoying,Seeing

The images formed in each line 

There’s more to happiness

Other than just smiling,bonding 

And having the funniest person next to you

There’s more to betrayal

Other than just jealousy,selfishness

Formed As the earth seems a better place to the traitor

There’s more to these eyes

Other than just seeing,staring

To what amazes us and sparks love

There’s more to emotions

Other than just anger,sadness

Maybe because we lost that special person 

There’s more to you

Other than just what He,She

Thinks you are everytime you pass by 

What do you see??



#Guest Blogger and Poet : Simiyu.



Day in day out each week,

In their rickety stalls they seat

Running their mouths they sure do,

Screaming out to all who pass by,

Of the wares they got in their stock,

And nothing of what they have not,

For they can’t accept a lack.
The prices out loud they shout,

Their country of origin too they scream,

Of the safety of their merchandize,

Off all the tests they have been subjected to,

But never do they tell…

Of their real worth in your life,

Of the need of you to have them.
By hook and  crook they will sell their wares,

Demeaning those of the other sellers,

Telling of their worsts even when not asked,

Cashing in on their falls just for gains,

All that and more for their goal…

To run them out of the market!

And take over their stalls too.
Through the eyes of the tax collector I will speak,

To dish a word or two about them,

Of the market sellers that shout themselves hoarse,

Bickering and tarnishing others within the market,

Be aware of them…

For even I am wary of them,

Yet I’m just the tax collector.
So next time you pass through the market,

Use your eyes to view the goods you need,

Use your words to get the best prices,

Use your hands to feel the texture of your purchases,

Use your ears not to listen to ’em sellers,

For in no time…

You too shall be driven out from the market,

So be aware our loyal customers.


*RAIL ON!!!*

*(a drunkards Monologue)*

I’m sitting at the counter of the Grill sipping my first glass of Jack Daniels. That’s a lie as far as the petite waiter is concerned. It’s Friday afternoon, just

from the office. Its been a hot, sunny, busy day, not to mention the orange dust that punctuates the air I breathe.

I’m putting on my casual wear, white T shirt tucked in a brown khaki jeans, with a black leather belt. My tie is loosely suspended on my nape. My brown shoes reflecting everything that it meets. On my wrist I’ve got my golden watch. I stare at it. Counting time. Tired, I just want to go home.

In the background the music plays,

Machozi yangu yote namalizika

Mie nitalala na nani

We unaenda

Mie mpaka ni mawazoo ooh ooh

mie mpaka ni kuwazawaza

we unaenda

kama ile njia yako enda

kama ni maisha yako fuata

wee dada ……

Slowly it fades away, and In my mind it’s replaced with tunes of a piano, with a soft iconic touch. The empathy of harmony fills me. “I live a lonely life”, it ghastly hits me like a tornado.

Why should I strive to live a fruitless life?

If the evening’s brewing why should I even go home,

Possibly to a woman whose mouth is an open barrel that constantly discharge projectile of words. That tore into my skin deeper than her long nails each night I thrust in her. It digs deeper into my flesh like she molds my soul into a new being. Its not pleasure that I feel. Its unprotected pain yet we barely have kids.
Tell me !

What do we often search for in this life so aimlessly that we never seem to grasp? Is it shame, When ourselves repatriates to our old selves? Each passing moment every act takes us back to the beginning of the forbidden fruit. Whence we slither like snakes, hissing with moist tongues back between the legs of a woman.

“The legs of a woman!” (chuckles again)

The legs of a woman no matter how tight, there’s only one thing that can come between them. One single thing that can always penetrate through.

What is it?

You know it, don’t you?

Tell me?

I know its money,

Am I right?
But why should a man have all the wealth in the world, and still miss the grandest of chances to be with a desired woman? Or a perfect family? Is this the point where we utter “life ain’t fair?? ”
I know…

The same way I know love ain’t real.

I know at some instances one of you have felt suicidal. I have. Many times. Most recently when I held Jack Daniels. When everything loses meaning and you feel like a tissue paper. Used. Thrown away in pits. Or like tits, does a baby get tired of suckling their moms tits? Or lips, not the other lips, I mean that other lips. They sprout open like zips. That’s it.

Its felt when unseen in darkness.

Why not end it all? Rescind to our ashes. Forget everything. Lie like logs housing squirrels. What a charade.
Usually I ain’t a drunkard.
“Excuse me, Would you love to have another drink? ”
I snap out of my frenzy. It ain’t as quiet. The music continues as it comes to a halt.

Rail on,

Rail on,

Rail on,

Think that’s the way!


“Excuse me sir, would you love to have another drink? ”
Papa Wemba must’ve been a good drunk to come up with that song. RIP.
“I’m okay. Call me a taxi. I need to ‘rail on'”
© *Heart_Art_Poetics*

® *2017*