Sa Voix Brisée, Blue Angel Singing War Songs

Sa Voix Brisée, Blue Angel Singing War Songs


Kofi Fosu Forson


Song for Clara. Dismiss the azimuth. Bear witness to the center

Where we spin on the axis of our true identity. Dissemination

Of love as disease. Puss fanatic drinking absinthe from shoe.

Horror in her eyes, she opens wide to let out a sound. Fetish!

Irony within the pelvis, an incision would produce incongruence.

A foetus. Club fascination of a hundred feet fighting is the hell

Enveloping the mind. Loud as an orgasm on meth. Synesthesia.

The word “Caricature” on a necklace, as tattoo. Cemented fate.

This sentence would best describe us. “I am everything you were

A life before”. No sense explaining. The future is a cracked mirror.



Lamenting the sentiment of lit candles in a dead night. How horror

Tilted from wrath to disenchantment. What cavernous mind is this?

Well thought-out-memories, hallowing embrace. My divinity, your cult.

Watching wings fall at length. White in its mercy washed over with gold.

I had been born again underground. Watchmen stunted. All that was rage

Kept hidden. Like an oven at five hundred degrees. At once blood boiled

Strengthening the bones. Then again it was war. Lust at the tip, scratching

Dead skin. Into the world I came, male hooker, begged for fire in my lungs.



Hazardous was the history. Left at the water’s bank were our other selves.

At all hours representations of failure ignited the sky. Bombardments.

Fields lay post-orgasmic. A conquering awaited. Possession. This was his

Hand taking hostage. Blistered fingers, sore knuckles and broken thumb.

How does one make fist when the limbs lack alignment? With victory we

Would have watched them surrender. Inside the barracks rioting. A song in

Each heart belting. Blue melody. Music for the heartless, love unrequited.



Charades after an administered bong. She begs beside me.  Les Russes

Arrivent. Thoughts of soldiers playing mechanics soldering. At the base

Were firing squads. Centuries of hair wilding, she had fallen by the bar an

Empty martini glass in hand. Torturous. Sa voix brisée. Blue angel singing

War songs. The ocean washes ashore. From window a curtainless moon.

To death undersexed, our midnight puppetry, love as aftermath. What we

Once were now misadventure, unclothed mannequins absurdly assembled.



Bio: Kofi Fosu Forson has written and directed plays for the Riant Theater. His collaborations include Gender, Space, Art and Architecture, a video project, Liverpool, England, and Dismember the Night, thread poetry and photography project, Tribes Gallery, NYC. As writer and poet he has published with Three Rooms Press and Great Weather for Media, Maintenant 10, Anti Heroin Chic, Full of Crow Press, Flapperhouse.

Sign Up for the Weekly Review

Join us in the Hellscapes of Social Media!

Or Check Out These Links!