27 May 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.