The doctor told me to add no alcohol to the housefire in my blood. But I’m allowed stabilizing agents, and packaging plastic.
Don’t say time bomb. I’m a timed safe with opioids within. The ones a body releases when it is dying.
I’m an african airbase for competing powers to launch their missions, my own wishes secondary, if that.
But as I enter the final taxi approach of midlife, I will not do as I’m told. Bring me, therefore, the moonshine
of poets, each beaking the fourth wall, in the only acceptable container for my disorder.
© Tolu Oloruntoba
Notes
I have never seen the term naïve art (also called outsider art) used in the context of literature. Which is neither here nor there since I’m not particularly well-read. :) But here’s a definition: Naïve art “…is created by a person who lacks the formal education and training that a professional artist undergoes” (Wikipedia). “The naïve creates with the same passion as the trained artist but without the latter’s formal knowledge of methods” (Britannica). Iambic who? Don’t know her! I have often felt that some of the strengths and weaknesses of poetry come from that lack of formal training. I’m not just playing by ear, I learned this instrument by ear. I’m very likely holding it wrong.