5 thoughts on apocalypse
At the yard, just at the young brook,
two frogs sit on the skin of water
weeping after a cloudburst,
a biologist says it’s arousal, speaks with
conviction, proves with a book.
A gull flies and sits on the chest
of a tree,
a muted sea snail rolls out of the deep.
Behind the yard, a man stuffs
his body into the belly of a bottle
and drives home on the bones
of two eczema-speckled urchins.
Who tells these stories without
a rubble, a flotsam, a shattered dream?
At the front of the yard, an urchin
runs into a room with a rust-kissed roof,
rats run along the roofline,
he comes out and coughs onto the floor.
Somewhere on news, a foreign beast
twirls out of the murk, flies across waters
and leaves dust on every street.
A bloke traipses forward on broken china,
gasping for breath. At dawn he is taken
away to lick urine on the floor of a clinic.
And beyond the yard,
four feed on dross from the
pockets of the rich.
About the Author
Lukpata Lomba Joseph is a Nigerian poet. His work has appeared in Jacar Press’s One, Back Channels Journal, South Florida Poetry Journal, The Collidescope, Squawk Back Journal, Subsaharan Magazine, Runcible Spoon Magazine and elsewhere. He currently resides in Port Harcourt.