Jesse Ojuka

The ocean grows hairs and itches like a whip in the pocket of a sadist 
Lips don’t bite unless bitten 
The core of the point never rarely hits the bullseye 
Bore me over the fence for my sins 
I confess to be a clown under the frown 
How much can I negotiate for the invisible gold I’ve sculpted 
Whatever happens remains buried under the ground they’ve hoisted 
And sold to the purple vultures in the beak of avarice
Out of breath even during sleep 
Give it a rest depletes