Discotheque Beneath neon lights flickering the excitive pops of fanfare; booze and girls and spirit— black boy's war I sway in a discotheque, drinking 504, dangling betwixt a loose mouth of nightmare and here— a district in hell. Rainbow upbeats funk drops like pills, incoherent joys, as retweets of retweets of reddit memes —I don't feel lost really. Just somewhere between there and discovery. I'm trying to keep up with the map but the music slurs my charge like an android, meat romance, leeching thrips you cannot strip off on any dance altar, shedding spirals by slurps by slurps. And I hate that I can't deplume my grief off my laughs. I hate it that I pity my happiness. But I like this reverberation of souls to level up with the frenzy galore It's only a retro wisdom to be young and wild and nowhere. Grays give no other chance, so I trance on by slurps by slurps by slurps. The night disc-jockeys ghosts in the UV spectrograph, as I brighten my universe like a dead star. Psych!
Olumide Manuel feels like a blessed Nigerian poet. He is a fan of Arsenal FC, K-dramas and Egusi soup.