gospel of smoke or a new translation of godhood
“sometimes i light god as a cigarette & watch him burn
to see how long deity
would last in a furnace.
or the shape it assumes
when it curls into a smoke.”
— Adedayo Agarau
you people cry about carrying god in your rotten bodies when all you own is
a blind bomb in a preacher swallowing your fortune,
selling penance & singing violently into your ears to forcefully bring down the
cloud of smoke i set free.
you are nudged to start wars inside me,
the enemy you seek wears a different cologne.
my body does not fucking subscribe to the code of bible,
i recognize the light of my gospel in my holy smoke:
which never went about forcing babies into
virgins’ bellies or demonizing selected beings.
i am not the graphical representation of my wounds,
i am the complete spelling of god,
not white or pure, i wear scars made beautiful by purifying the rogue nations in my body.
i am my greatest form of holiness,
coughing up bitter years of mental slavery,
i go into the world, folding my body into a temple of worship & watch the flames eat up my object of sacrifice — a cigar dying proudly & burning so i
cover my eyes, watching the sky fall in respect for the fallen worshipper.
smoke worships me, calls me god, collapses into ash that will rise to possess heaven.
fuck you & your adulterated warning about judgment,
i declare war on hypocrites in sunday dresses
every time they attempt to explode on my life,
satanizing my smoke.
they are in hundredfold wagging cynical tongues, sentencing me to eternal damnation with their looks clad in poison,
they fail to close the doors of their mouths when i refuse to bow, rebelling against their word, i light my body into a smoke, gradually learning the theory of my body.
like a river, i am endless in my godhood,
rolling your god into a roll
& consume tales about
the second coming with my homemade fire.
this phase is for
my smoke, a true hero resisting the voice of death,
refusing to be suffocated by damned hypocrites whose hearts are modelled on their bible.
in my head, i rescue those who like me are tired of eating tasteless stories &
being unofficial money mines where all they do is take, seize & plunder.
i walk into my smoke,
return a changed man… i am god, unapologetic about the path i have tattooed on my soul.
those who wallow in the waters of condemnation will one day
love this smoke in ways i never discovered.
there goes god in your lover’s body
a playboy is walking, strolling into the dead of the night & into a playgirl,
body anointed with sex.
she wears her body proudly, not shamefaced like a church girl afraid her baby’s first words will be “fuck”.
she is a monument to pleasure, a body worth holding with words, through poetry: she is made whole.
words are exchanged, laughs flying around with the colour of butterflies, a room door is opened rather hastily,
lovemaking will be moaned like a hymn, bodies will catch fire, lips will melt together.
first, they make a law about smoking, wraps are shared equally, no feminist shit here.
the boy is seeing stars mounting the sky, fucking the hell out heaven,
the girl is lost in space, perhaps she needs saving as a long pulsating form that throbs &
quivers with intended oral baptism.
they smoke, talk about life & how their pathways seem to run into brick walls.
slowly, like taking in death, they give life back to the world with generous clouds happy enough
to occupy heaven.
sex is a language learned quickly, these two devour each other, hands selecting choice portions & groping,
the bed is waiting, the smoke has served as worthy sacrifice & they sink into the bed.
bed hosts their lovemaking, watching them wrap around themselves, a moan is a remedy for a broken day.
a thrust is a gospel to worship, more… dozens are welcome developments that playgirl is all too prepared to make her own dreamlike paradise.
she takes all of him inside her mouth, like a roll of weed, she summons expulsion,
with her hands softening every hard body part, she invokes release — river of emotions.
he is on top, enforcing control softly. how can sex be such a hard battle softened up by
smoke till everybody is a winner?
the night gradually dies, light mechanically fails but these bodies are still deep in worship,
they are sunken ships requiring no rescue mission.
kisses are never out of supply & they lose control of their bodies to claim control over the world.
in the morning, coffee will not be enough to submerge the raging waves of headaches & conversation will be thin,
both bodies will need recovery, revival & redemption. but then again, does one wish to stop tasting god in all that sweat acting as beads on lover’s skin? heaven will be a long sex scene; they nod, sharing a joint in solidarity.
Michael Ifeanyi Akuchie is a firefly, writer, poet, storyteller & Nigerian by origin. His works have appeared online and in print on Praxis Magazine Online, Prose & Poetry Hood, Tuck Magazine, Dwarts Magazine, Ace World, Storried, Syncity, Antarctica Journal & elsewhere. He’s a recipient of the 2017 Black Pride Magazine award for excellence in poetry. He studies English & Literature at the University of Benin, Nigeria.