February 25, 2025

by I Echo

Nocturnal

“What attempts survival here has no words

 but hunger.” 

—Chris Abani, ‘There Are No Names For Red – III’

I dance 

round 

the block 

in ballet 

shoes.

Boxing 

with the night air, 

how else can I walk? 

I earn, 

earn, 

I, urn. 

See how earn slips into urn with ease? 

I carry the impure of both 

my parents’ death 

into 

the mare clausum of a friend. 

Pilgrim of manhood,

festering my way into madness.

I admit I love the idea 

of running 

mad. Eccentric 

neighbour watching 

the postfuck of dogs

stuck 

t

a

n

d

inside 

n

g

each other, 

unable 

to      p u l l 

                         clean the erection of debauchery. 

The President too 

in idle time                                    watches dogs

fuck dogs. 

    This is not real 

    but who am I to judge? 

    The government 

    must be learning 

the animal instinct of gluttony 

    somehow. 

How did we get here? 

Nocturnal crickets 

cry

incessantly 

like a mother

empty 

of a child. 

Behind the walls 

of the upper room 

of that beautiful church 

down the block, 

the spirits of dead dogs

lay. 

All of them, 

fucked right 

by Oracles. Forgive me, 

I made a foul mistake 

of my malady. 

Pomegranate 

of horniness, 

do you too think

of the dogs 

smoking the night 

in hormones?

The heavens, black 

with hope, watch 

the bass & tambourines 

from the Church 

block echo well to cancel out 

the yowl of all the dogs 

being fucked at night. 

Product of poverty,

do you still dream of heaven? 

Anecdote of the vulgar, 

do you disintegrate 

inside its lithe weather 

cell/sell by cell/sell?

Tell me the night will not end 

like 

this? 

That

these black feet 

will be made clean

with sanity.