erections are exercises in futility (after Adrian Onyando)

what shall we call the wall we erect to defend ourselves?

& how high shall it be?

&

under whose phallus shall the wall fall?

whose shame will this wall carry when ten times, ten & forty seven souls can no longer be appeased by thoughts sent between a collective blaming & reflex prayers?

“walls of phalluses can no longer protect us/erections are exercises in futility”, I hear you say  Japuonj but, Ok ang’eyo.

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Neo Musangi

i like to think of myself as a stubborn non-human organism experiencing existential nightmares as though i were human. after numerous almost-failed attempts at long-form, i now call myself a poet (which i use as an excuse to be cynical about life).