Livingstone Ngoziukwu 

Livingstone Ngoziukwu is a Nigeria poet, that hails from the Abia  state. He runs an undergraduate program in the National Open  University Of Nigeria, Information Technology. He also is a writer in  a budding magazine firm in the country's social capital, Lagos state.

COMPLEX CONFUSION

While I suppine on these continual coagulations I dream, of broken bloods on the inside rots of my boats Whirling its buttocks against wooden upheaval.

And the sparrows, unvoiced

in my rivers sprang to sing,

and the waters watched in waves.

O magnificently profane it was

while I dremt,

of unstupouring calmness

in the liquor of our sweet herbs

Of thirsty turmoils in the greenish plentitude of steaming plates, while humble foliages wink us a passage of rays.

And in the mutilation of proper pain

the dove from my throat

renders a chime

of mistuned mellowness.

RAINING

Beauty are the leaves that giggles in the garden

Roughly rending the quiet soulless street, with noises

That these dreams thrist the echoes of gobblets,

While the evening drops tramps against the roofs;

The small thumps of the triangular rain, cruising softly

To the hollow of naked heaps, eager for liquid thrusts,

And the droplets put colourless fingers

Into the grave,

And bloom the flowers that died!

Beauty was the oval joy, that peppered the tongue

Into the tunes of verbal commotions, senseless renditions: the mad mind meanders with an overfull.

The pang of the sensation sat on my gate, like waters that mules licks

The origins of which little I had known, neither

But that for those former days the soul flourished, as reeds that Nile suckle.

But such sights ageless skips eager eulogies

And all that hangs on the crosses of poetic prophets

Where those the eyes fondles. Those the laws of man may adore.

Those ebbing pails that holds no piety!

JULY

we are altering all the hours

the evenings' tumbler tumble down

shattering in a stream: to wake like flowers

in the exulting tones of our yawns.

please, when the finches are done peeking

the liquid remnants of my dank bones, and the doves

flee out my trees, put my tongue on the lentils

of your preserved waters– in your boats, hold me!