An Inconvenient Itch

Of luckless late, I’ve lost my second sight, and I’ve been itching cacti for some wicked, unrestrained inspiration to zap me back on track. You know, it’s not an undemanding engagement of throwing your eyes wide to catch the telling detail. When true second sight strikes, the inspiration or the scene will seize you!

I went out and bought myself a little present today – a writer’s notebook. It is my first purpose-book for creative non-poetry. That should do the trick, no? Nature wound some of her mystery too, and granted me an extravaganza in Dzorwulu, in the City of Accra. With war-front features in a pair of tight, oily-fabric, white trousers, she needed only a few drive-by seconds to shock my hair to barbs and bristles!

She was walking fine one moment; dithering in the next; splaying her legs out till her fat thighs no longer kissed. She pigeon-toed her feet and hoicked up her pinpoint posterior at a gross gradient. Something was missing from the scene – her right hand! It crawled out of its burial ground, inch-deep in her rump! Before fifty pairs of affronted eyes, at a swarming intersection, she’d just liberated herself from an inconvenient itch!