A Mouth's Butterflies Poem by Felix Bongjoh

(i)

A round man
beaming
in straight
sunrays
and beams of light
talks to the crowd,

more wings
of sun
lifting him up.

He's crowned
with prickling
bright
thorns of his
firmament,

as he spins
rising to erect
himself
like a flag-flying
girder pole

planted
into a slab
on the podium

in the public
square
of cutting frankness.

He showers
the crowd
with a string

of stinging
bees
and wasps
of candy candor,

but gets
only buzzes
and gongs
of mumbling voices

to follow him
down
a garden's path.

(ii)

But as more
light filters through

to the man
and his glued
and sealed listeners

flanked
by gladiolus,
ringing
bellflowers
and balloon flowers,

making candor
cut like the singing
chainsaw
of a lyre bird,

he pours out
flames
of colorful
butterflies
to hover over

the deaf ears
of ignited
and tuned-in folks

bobbing
under butterflies
poured out
from a mouth

telling arrow-
shooting
lies itchy as lice.

He pulls in
a million followers
to drown
in his comet's light

of lies blown out
into beams
of gold light carrying
no gold,

but powdering
everyone into
ghosts of themselves

under dusk's
crimson fire,
all folks ashy moths.