LOGO BENZ

Let me tell this story like it's mine. Maybe it's actually mine. Maybe not. Follow me.

You were the girl of my dreams. I swear to God, I saw you every night jogging around my sleep with bouncy glands—the main reason why we're all called mammals. Each time I tried to touch them, what I felt was vacuum but I imagined how soft and succulent they were. Maybe juicy enough to feed a host of wedding guests.

In real life, I found you somewhere in my poetry class. I wondered what a whole collection of poetry was doing in a poetry class. I soon realized you're the poetry I came to study. Day in, day out, I wrote poems about you—about how we became 69 behind closed doors, how I taught you French in between our kisses, how you threw your freshly baked butt back every Thursday like TBT.

Unfortunately for me, the only poetry you love was about fast cars, sleek gadgets and stilettos. Your response to all my poetry was “Poets die miserable”. Each line dragged to the other reminding me to get my shit together, that luxury is the kind of lorry I should ride. I remember you specifically said that was a failed attempt at pun, I had to ride Mercedes before I rode you.

Just fifteen poetry ago, you gave me the detailed starter kit—from email blasting to dating to wire wire. I had a foreign number, a cloning app and other contrabands to legitimise my illegitimacy. Unfortunately I wanted to ride you so badly I needed a Mercedes, but all these won't get me one. I had to hurry up!

Your pants. Your pants. Atleast, to ride you I needed to take them off. I took them discreetly from the bathroom window, spiced it up and voila! The benz is here. Black Benz. White Benz. The details are too graphic.

“Poets die miserable”.
Maybe this is how you will die,
since you're also a poet.


© Cranium X