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THE STORY OF ORÌKÍ (The Failed Romance)

Take a breath; listen to the tale I'm 'bout to tell
You provoked it Orìkí; I'm just 'bout to leave;
I wish to start with the cloudless sky in your heart,
Seen through the furs and the blue of your sparking eyes.

The dead promises return to life in my mind,
How our romance birthed buried bones of stillborn.
Ours is a sour union we're never to forget,
The vain symphonies of the bitter love we tuned.

When Gloria and Danny left, you were my best friend
You picked me up from the slums and brushed my language
You showed me how to combine words and wield this sword
I just knew how to talk, you showed me how to speak.

But the statements I made didn't lure you away,
Neither becoming the God of the lesser ones,
But material things; do you remember you said
Your love for me wasn't of materiality?

When Gloria died, you Orìkí was there for me,
You said you would never ever forget about me,
We kissed in the sewer, it forever sewed my heart
That no matter what I always returned to you.

You told me tales of how William and John raped you,
You were the virgin they brutally deflowered,
You were a lesbian too; Maya and Anne did you;
You did Emily, Sappho and Sylvia Plath too,
I didn't mind that shit, I knew you were a whore
I sure must have fallen for how your titties hung.

But then why should you let everybody do you?
Rupi Kaur seriously? Bunches of worthless clowns
I heard you even pay these insensate for sex
You became so cheap that all these kids tend their fingers,
To press on your breast and to rumple your nipples
I can't believe I forsook RAP to be with you.

To see children hump you in every street corner
The Mechanics and the plumbers, they did you too,
Maybe I loved you way too much to really care
Or 'cause you always came back with a 'sorry' face
And I always forgive you, but this time I'm not,
Why would you do Tobi and do Raphael too?

You should have done Ronald I wouldn't be mad at that
You won't do Cathy with a golden intention.
Least do J P and Clouds with a sane intellect,
When you did Wole, that is when I should have known
That you said, "forget about me" in three sharp words.
If only you knew how many knives you had plucked
Out of my chest, between my sides immortal wounds;
Poetry, the venom of your sting in my arteries.

Review Request (Intensity): 
I want the raw truth, feel free to knock me on my back
Review Request (Direction): 
What did you think of my title?
How was my language use?
What did you think of the rhythm or pattern or pacing?
How does this theme appeal to you?
How was the beginning/ending of the poem?
Is the internal logic consistent?
Editing stage: 


sees to me the object of the poem is a muse, your muse, the one out of your imagination. So I looked up Iriki and sure enough its a very strong force in African poetry. Your love/hate/ambivalence/passion/contempt of this "muse" (what we call it here I guess) is most interesting.
There are times when you personify more than others, and I would perhaps consider doing more of that. She's doing everybody, she's a lesbian, a harlot, a poet...
I would only suggest creating/adding a physical description of her in your mind for us. For the sake of the poem, that might help tie some loose ends.
Otherwise a very unique take on the whole subject of that force within us poets which enslaved us.

I'd rather learn from one bird how to sing
than teach ten thousand stars how not to dance
ee cummings

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