Mad Colours

Zakiyyah Dzukogi

Photography: Laura Skinner

I have suffuse with colour

Words within a thin voice

Sizzled by the cinnamon

Dense under my tongue


We may be pawns

In our own parcel

Of today’s maybe, cold dreams and swears

And as glasses

We break into poems

Like an already cracked egg

Doffed off from a wailing flower

Give a smack to tomorrow’s scrabble

Who gleams like a rosy-coloured plate

In the half of a purple night

Between the teeth of the earliest mornings

Are frowns we left

In the middle of the night

Fumes that stink 

Only in the mornings

If not we heard voices

When the doors twitched

We wouldn’t have known

the demons in our paintings

are real.