Krystal Pen

Fiction, Poetry and everything Literary. Every voice should be heard.

Tag Archive for ‘Nemine Funge-owei Michael’

Ghosts on the loose/ Series/ Chapter 3

A day before. Weird kolokuma sat on the cane chair kept permanently at the entrance of his log cabin and made the sound of different gunshots with his lips. It was his way of telling his personal account of the war. Nobody liked him because he was a demon, a demon inside the body of a fifty-something year old albino- because demons do not have voices, they only compel people […]

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Free men/ Poetry

Men live in twos but free men live without conflict. The conflicts are sands; enticing and without heads. The conflicts are when you want to be a seed, living on the surface when you want to travel with the wind. Men live in twos but free men live without conflict. Free men are the souls with no hide; seeds that abide. They are also the bodies without a soul, mere […]

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This is how a man dies/ Poetry

First; He chases shadows of coins and delicate things budding from Sheba’s queen dancing in the wind, bearing no compass. Second; He wears away from his vessel like woeful steam rejecting a black kettle. Third; He becomes hyacinth roaming Forcados; homeless, while his vessel wears away and finds a space among clays. Fourth; He becomes a memory. This is how a man dies.

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I want to die sailing/ Poetry

  Tell me about the death you bring I long for it At least, it brings a devouring pleasure And bolting streams of sweats Tell me about the lips The taste of five colonies of bees burnt The savagery of hyenas folded into the dark Tell me about these bumps Abandoned on corners carefully Soft fire that rolls peace from skins Valleys sitting like mountains Tell me about those sacs […]

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Ghosts on the loose/ Series/ Chapter 2

Maa held us tightly in the siting room. We sloped into her arms like chicks, sitting on the long wooden couch. Toma was frozen while I felt the nerve around my temple throbbing. The shock was passing gradually, but it was taken so much time, like it was never going to. Maa tried to tells us it was normal for children to see things that are not there. ‘It’s your […]

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MILKY BOULEVARDS/ POETRY

The grays have turned dust and the heads mere skulls. The solitary brown tooth is now a memory and the mouth now made of milk. The boulevards now echo with a cacophony of empty sounds and the reproves of fallen trees now trodden by the branches that sway in the wind. I heard they once lived; bones that tell the color of life in their mouth. I heard they have […]

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