The Curse of Memories (Gloss 2)

     People of God, good afternoon. I have been absent for a while now, and for this, I am sorry. I can’t make promises because I will most likely break them but I will say that whenever I am free (which will most likely be weekends), I will try my best to entertain you whichever way I can.

     Today, I am posting a poem. You must be wondering where Gloss 1 is. It is in which is owned by @VegaPunk (formerly @Paetir) and was written by @Blaqnyght who has permitted me to post this on my blog even though he did not send me message to write part 2 for him. My wahala is much. I know. I was just so inspired by Gloss 1 that I did not rest till I wrote Gloss 2. I hope I have not demeaned the original and that it meets even if only half of Blaqnyght’s. I don’t know how to insert links so I am sorry but you all will manually have to go to Redor to look for it.

     Try to read the part 1 too and tell me if it fits/follows. Thanks.

     I talk too much abi? This talkativeness is what put me in trouble some hours ago. I just don’t learn, do I?

Enjoy (hopefully)


The Curse of Memories (Gloss 2)

As a paint brush on a wall

As a train on its tracks

Up and down you travel

along familiar terrain

Trekking the routes over and over

in your downcast mind.

Covering the tracks with more grease

Coating the walls with more gloss.

Why seek to forget?

To erase what has been

and replace with what you wish?

You seek to forget because you are weak.

A child of dust

and feeble as frail.

Remember, but do not fear.

For to fear is to fight

and to fight is to be bound

and to be bound is sure death.

So be calm.

Even when you see the butcher’s knife

even as you feel the surgeon’s clamp.

For at the end, you too will become only a memory

That may get glossier, but will fade eventually into nothingness.

For all is vain, all is naught.

Leave it all, all is dust.

I will just drop this here...
I will just drop this here…

I know I am supposed to write something witty/cool in this space but nothing comes to mind now. I know I will remember after posting. 😦



It’s been a while I wrote anything, perhaps after this you might understand.

And yes, I usually don’t write poems, I prefer limericks, hence, I would not follow all the ‘rules’..

That said, read on..


now playing: Hopeless wanderer | Mumford and Sons



These dark shards pierce my heart,

splintered ends of unholy swords.

their jagged ends tear me apart,

their bearers, sons of the Satan’s hordes.


Fear, anxiety, apathy and shame,

these demons trouble me in day and night,

tearing at my soul, and shrieking my name,

they add to my onerous plight.


Thing is:


I write my verses, as the tunes of a minstrel,

soothing, then ululating, then sombre.

And one may read them as the cry of the wastrel,

shrill, then captivating, then it’s over.




So these pains cant against my faith,

rendering my soul into the deepest of despair.

And as with such things, it affects my art,

and my relationships fall to disrepair.


Morn and night, my days, a bleak skyline

no cloud, no sun, no azure blue sky.

I wander about, lost in a hopeless daze,

no sound, no fun, no thoughts to fly


It’s getting easier, I think:


It’s always been easy for me,

to write of my deepest pains.

That which worries and I can’t do,

is tell of my greatest sins.


But now, a ray in the darkness:


For even while I sleep, my dreams rage away,

visions of darkness, and red, and fire, and death.

But at the end of it all, there still is hope,

hope for joy, hope for happiness, hope for mirth


And now as I sit to write of this,

my spirit lifts and my fears negate.

My demons all fled, my head is clear,

my heart is free, the storms abate.





Believe me, I tried to make this into a humorous rant.

Do leave your comments.

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An Evening with Vundie

So Ikenna was bored yesterday, or the day before, at about 5pm..and he wrote and sent me this.  I read it and burst out laughing for miles. I hope you enjoy it too.

Oh yes, of course, every sentiment expressed is the opinion of the writer, and not this blog of course.

Of course…



5 pm. He’s fucking bored.
He ain’t done shit all day.
The evening is almost here;
Daylight is wasting away.
All day he’s been in this house;
With nothing much to do.
His brain is working very hard
To search for something new.


He’s slept, he’s woken, watched some porn,
Jerked off till it hurts.
Tried to call his ex-girlfriend,
But he couldn’t find the words.
He’s sat down in all the chairs,
But they all feel the same.
Turn on the TV, turn it off;
This is his only game.


But suddenly, a powerful urge
To get into his car,
And drive down to the neighborhood church
Which isn’t very far.
He doesn’t know why he’s going there,
Or what he’s gonna do;
The voices just say, “Where’s your rifle?”
“Take that shit with you.”


He gets into the car,
And pulls away from the house.
The street is strangely quiet;
No peep from even a mouse.
The voices are scaring him now,
But shut them up he cannot.
He turns on the A/C,
But his body still feels hot.


He drives into the church parking lot,
And turns the engine off.
The sweat is making his shirt stick,
And his breath comes hard and rough.
He’s standing in the shadow
Of the hallowed home of God,
When again, the voices call to him,
And their screams ignite his blood.


“Quickly! You must get to the roof!”
“Don’t stop until you’re there!”
He dashes up the staircase,
Of others unaware.
“Where are you going, my son?”
The pastor yells to him.
But he cannot hear anyone else;
The voices make his senses dim.

Up and up the poor man runs;
His footsteps echo loud.
In a frenzy he climbs the stairs
As if chased by a crowd.
The pastor shakes his grey head,
And continues on his way.
He doesn’t see the rifle,
Because it’s in its case today.


He finally gets to the roof;
He looks up at the sun.
It’s just beginning to go back home
To prepare for the dawn.
In this one moment, his thoughts are his,
And they are very clear.
But suddenly, his mind goes blank;
And the voices are back there.


He goes to the edge of the roof,
With his rifle in tow.
He puts his eye to the view scope,
And watches the world below.
There is a woman with her little child,
Going home at the end of the day.
Somewhere else, a groundnut seller
Is packing her wares away.


He just stands there and watches them,
Oblivious little ants.
Going along their different routes
In their skirts and shorts and pants.
With a grim chuckle to himself,
He loads his tool of death.
He puts his eye back to the scope,
And takes a very deep breath.


He looks again at the view below,
And the targets in display.
He’s picking random people
To take their lives away.
He stands there for a long time,
Just looking at the scene,
When suddenly, in his pocket,
His phone starts to ring.


He looks at the display;
His ex-girlfriend’s number shows.
In the rapidly darkening evening,
The phone screen brightly glows.
He answers the phone call,
Puts the phone to his ear.
She tells him she’s driving to his house,
And she is almost there.


He hangs up and just stands there,
His thoughts all in a whirl,
When suddenly, the voices scream,
“Dude, go home and fuck that girl!”
He dashes back down the stairs,
Past the bewildered pastor again;
Revs up the car engine,
And pulls into the fast lane.


The voices in his head are silent;
He’s feeling normal now.
He’s driving like a maniac,
As fast as traffic can allow.
And those people may never know;
Have any idea at all,
How all their lives were saved
By a goddamn booty call




Like i said..

Follow on Twitter @janus_aneni


The Road To Down


Sitting across me, your face creases

My sight may not be one that pleases.

I am subject to some thousand teases

Target for a torment that never ceases.

Wipe from your face that frown

Fellow human I am only down.


My speech slurred and slow

my face spread like dough.

With sheepish grin and stubby chin

never thin, I never win, I never sin

dependent on only kin.

Do not ever, stranger, do not ever

despise the road that leads to down.


My bespectacled eyes are bleary

My protruding tongue renders my words slurry.

I may be sterile, I may become senile

I am puerile though never agile.

Be ever grateful, friend, forever grateful

For long is the road that leads to down


Complexities are mysteries

Simplicities are victories.

I might grow to forget

and never know regret.

I grow at my pace

do not cast your gaze low.

Do not laugh at my face

passerby, you do not know

For calm is the storm found on the lonely lengthy road that leads to down.


Since I was little till now, I see this guy every Sunday in church and whenever I attend weekly programs. I always notice him. He never misses service. I am sure of it. About five months ago, I stalked him for close to six Sundays and even ensured I sat near him on one. I do not even know his name. What I feel for him is not really pity. It’s just…. I don’t know. Maybe compassion. And never you look down on them; their heaven is sure. Only God knows of yours.



•Yes. The guy has Down’s syndrome.

•Yes. I disobeyed the ushers.

•Yes. The stalking was fun.

•Since I am not disclaiming anything, maybe I should have called it a ‘claimer’.


You’ve most definitely seen her here when she wrote Angst for A Twist in the Tale. Let’s say, from hence you’ll be seeing a lot of her on this blog.

Teleola, please…




We gather our garments by their hems

and race against kin.

We reach for greatness, following Udeme

making stepping stones of fellow skulls

whilst preaching of bonds and love lost.

We pull down and destroy with honey-filled lips

drawing blood with enamel-armed gums.

Eastern swindlers, Western thugs

Northern terrorists, Southern militants.

Each for himself, each with heme-stained hands.

We take incessantly, eating what we have not cooked

and like an ocean never full.

We fill our homes with excrement

and then seek refuge in another’s.

Prisoners to our passions.

Slaves to our sins.

Tied to our troubles.



No, not Tele..
No, not Tele..



Peace. as per usual.. 🙂



A Lone Star

Ormeh sent this to me this evening, freestyle. I liked it. I think you will too.


Lone Star

Seven pm
The month was moving towards its end
The evening was bright and
The crickets were chirping happily around the bend
…there sat a girl
Just staring around looking like she was out for the atmosphere
To the unobservant eye she was just enjoying the evening
But she was imagining a life with more meaning

Just a normal girl
Not particularly pretty
Not particularly witty
Not particularly smart
Not particularly flat
Not particularly loved
Not particularly wanted
She was.. The poster girl for average

She had a few friends
Had a few laughs
Met a few guys
Had a few flings
What people didn’t know about Grey
(As was her name)
Was that she wanted more

She wanted more than a few mutual friends
She wanted the bffs; friends to the end,
Like was portrayed in movies.
She wanted more than a few flings
She wanted that fiery passionate love
She wanted that calm undying love
A companion to share experiences with
Even the little ones
Really just any kind of love would do
So long as it wasn’t the one between kins.

She stared at the sky
No stars tonight she thought with a sigh
There was nothing visible other than clouds
And this was how she saw her life
Beautiful at first but empty upon closer scrutiny
Oh look…
She found a star
Twas but a lone star
A lone star with no companions close or afar

She wanted her life to be like a beautiful night
The moon surrounded by a lot of stars

Beyond that not particularly beautiful smile
Beneath the girl plain to sight
Was a typical girl that wished to be loved
For deep down she was a lonely girl

A lone star.


“Not particularly flat..” Yup! That was D right thing to say. 😉

A Twist in the Tale: ENGANO

And for today’s feature presentation, we have noble Paetir with his offering; of the gods and of Ragnorak, of  murder and twisted souls..


It is said that a true ripper never dies.

He will surely come back,

To reclaim life once lost,

One that may no longer be his to take,

But he doesn’t care, he will take it anyway

For you see, the ripper is always at war

He has never known peace

For peace is as alien to him as the sanctity of life

Everything alive must one day die

For what is the worth of a life?

If it cannot be taken with the swing of a sword..

Another sits on his throne

He claims right to the throne by birth

But now he’s trapped.

Now he has to make do with what he has.

And who says he can’t have some little fun?


Men worship gods

But gods must serve man

For a god is a manifestation of man’s dreams

And heights he will most likely aspire to

Dreams are what they are

I am god.


He creeps around in the dark

Creep Creepy little weevil

I bear the brunt of his revenge, for he is Cain.

The sun might just rise a little too sooner than the 6th hour.


A blood sucking duckling he was

A man of striking and destructive worth

He awoke from thousands ofyears in slumber

He roared at his throne from the pits as a disgraced dragon.


Her name was Trina

A girl in her teens who loved older men

They were after all more understanding

She lived her life as she saw fit.


Mr. Mark had just moved in next door

With his wife Vivian and daughter Margaret

They were a strange bunch

They kept to themselves.

Trina liked him,

Trina liked older men.


The Norse ‘deified’ ideals of strength.

He deified extremes instead

Pushing the envelope

Testing the boundaries of chance

This is the life he chose.


Mr. Mark was always home

He never went out

So naturally he was the first stop when Trina needed to do her math homework

She knocked, ‘Come in’ He said

On the 14th day of May 2013 they fucked.

He kept screaming ‘Ragnarok. Ragnarok. Ragnarok’ as he came

Trina watched him in awe,

He made love to her like no other

He took her to heights of pleasure

Heights she never even imagined existed.

He was the perfect lover,

He had a very weird smile, one she had never seen before, one she would never forget.


Let he who is free test the wrath of the father

For freedom seeks bondage after all.

The devil slumbers,maniac awakens

He pisses on family

He was asleep while you did it,

But yet, he pisses on memory.


Mr. Mark woke up that night,

Strangled his wife in her sleep

And hit his daughter in the head till he could see her brains pop out like ice-cream

He waited till his family bled to death while he watched his favorite tv show.

Then at exactly 6am in the morning he screamed and barged out of his house.

‘Trina Trina’ He kept shouting, he had no idea why,

In a few seconds he was at Trina’s, hitting at the door furiously.

When she opened the door, she was as shocked as the words that refused to escape her mouth.

She saw Mr. Mark in blood stained clothes, eyes blood red, she let out a harrowing scream.

‘Trina it’s me, it’s me’

‘Your father’

Immediately Trina’s dad came in and tackled Mr. Mark below the waist, they tumbled across the front porch and down the stairs.

A scuffle ensued and the two men were left struggling for their lives while Trina watched in horror

‘Who are you? ’ Mr. Mark asked.

They all thought he was insane, maybe he was, they had never really known him.

All these crazy people that their Landlord let in his house. One had finally turned on them.

After a few minutes, the police came along and whisked Mr. Mark away like a stray dog.

The whole neighborhood was abuzz , a man had after all murdered his family and tried to do the same to his neighbors.

It was a good day to be a journalist in town.


Cain, a maniac.

Dog as a devil deified, lived as a god.”


That evening, Trina’s family ate in fear.

They talked in hushed tones.

Trina’s father seemed to be in a particularly good mood.

While they were eating, He flashed a smile at Trina and said ‘Ragnarok, I know what you did yesterday’

Trina was shocked, she began to shiver where she sat, she had never heard her father say ragnarok and she definitely recognized that smile, that weird smile, the one Mr. Mark had on his face after he made love to her, confused she began to stutter.

She lost consciousness.

Loki smiled to himself, he enjoyed playing games with humans, as they usually entertained him. For what was the use of living as mere mortal if he couldn’t have some fun eh?

Don’t answer that.

But then he rushed to get her up and to the hospital, after all he was her father right?





LOKI = Norse God of Deception and Chaos.

In case you don’t get what happened, Loki was Mr. Mark, he slept with Trina, murdered Mr. Mark’s family and somehow transferred his consciousness to Trina’s father’s body leaving Trina’s father’s consciousness in Mr. Mark’s body to take the fall. Confusing shey? Don’t worry, now go read it again.

Did you also notice the palindromes?



 For the benefit of the rest of us, Palindromes are words or phrases which when read from both ends remain the same, like: ‘madam’ or ‘able was I, ere, I saw Elba’ or ‘djdjdjdjdjdjdjdjdjdjdjdjd’


The next instalment comes up the day after tomorrow, with the beautiful @teleolaonifade

Follow on twitter @Janus_aneni. You may also follow @Paetir but nah…