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FRANCIS IKE
NO. 19

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NO. 19 | POEMS | WISHES | ELEGY OF THE OIL GROUND | THE CONMAN

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In This dingy room
Water halves the tibia
Hurricane tilts and sails
Certificate and papers floats
Like colorful regatta at ogbuide
Weak ceiling like pregnant cloud
Charge for a fatal release of deluges

From perforated rustic roof tops
Light peeps as galaxies in the sky
Their grotesque eye impishly starring
Louvers are no more, curtain are shreds
And blind bat passes through expressly
While the putrid smell of rottenness and squalor
Bestrides the little space
But around my neck l
Landlord!
The landlord he breathes hot air
He rents the air
With piercing word from personal sources
Increase! I will for minimum wages
Quit! I have for new remuneration
And where do I go from here?

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Afropoets is maintained by Barthosa Nkurumeh for Ulonka. Copy right by Ulonka and Ike Francis, February 2002