The Antisocialist | Visar

Eager to tell them

As many as possible are incredible

The prologues of our personalities

Stories that turn our bodies into a hot sauce,

Crafted to be received with curiosity

& excitement of strangers & acquaintances,

With these words oozing out we break

Into circles & triangles & groups,

Then we wait between listening to others

To talk more about themselves,

Nodding as if we understand,

We start drinking so the words

Come easily. We don’t even know we are

Taking turns in talking. Usually

The next topic begins with many raised voices

In a circle that bows down to one.

As far as I have learned this is what

People call social skills, the ability to engage

In a passive verbal combat when necessary

& also party. To squeeze our uninformed opinions here

& there. To smear our discoloured selves on

The faces of others. & to pick up a topic before

They fall below the threshold of music.

The art of holding wine glasses, red Styrofoam

Cups & looking cool. Slowly a party picks

Up momentum. More people arrive

Alone or with a clique, wearing

Pancakes or shades or both, matching

Colours, & the shoes that fit & strikes

The difference. This is also a party. I drink

Vodka until my body is filled with helium, the bass

Of the massive sound system in sync with our heart-

Beats altogether. I take side glances. I fall

In love with women for the longest seconds.

Women who are definitely with other men

In a circle, wrapped in arms, or drowning

In a triangle of dialogue of other men.

Women alone pretending to be busy

Texting. Women with other women, laughing

At women jokes. Meanwhile, Cups keep

Getting refilled, Eyes inflamed. At any time

I notice the exchange of women between men.

Ways to get anybody’s attention. Private parties

Of the party. There is a way partygoers show off

Wristwatches, bracelets, handbags & shoes go

All the way up into your head that matters. Phones come out

Of the dark, poses are taken in the moment: Live snaps,

Group photos, statuses uploaded. No one cares for

A loner like me, especially buried in a hoodie,

Save a few waves across the hall, few hugs &

Handshakes but I’m happy to be left alone.

 

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Visar’s a Nigerian poet who also writes short stories, forms of haikus and Tanka, Articles and reviews. Visar’s works have appeared on Nthanda review, The Kalahari review, and African writer and elsewhere.