There are few worse things in life than a bad writer in a good mood. And then there are the Poets.
Published by Chuka Nestor Emezue
A weekend novelist among other powerful sins. This is my undoing. There are faultlines in my humanity that I have trained to ink. The simple ramblings of a hobbyist of silence, gin, and magic. Here, I forsake decorum, abandon habits, bare my cerebellum, and forget old bonds. From this fugue, my sole heart desire is to evade the Devil, the subway rats, the landlord, his wife, and then, saccharinic writers. For besides their sharp fraudulence, I dread even more the malady that comes from being a disciple of many masters. Now, I am driven to fondling the minds of the most misplaced, the least self-aware, the ones you will not read. Brat-pack types. Down and dirty fools. Sons of forgotten mothers. Grand, bold bastards, whose composed works are not page-turners. Those who upset our digestion. The ones whose newspaper poems keep out the sunset in the attic window. I am one of such – a remarkably errant thing. Chuka N.E, 2014 View all posts by Chuka Nestor Emezue