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A weekend novelist, among other such mighty sins. This is my undoing. A fault line in my humanity. The rather unsophisticated ramblings of a lover of silence and magic, In this here place I can take off clothes, Expose my mind and forget debts – or so I fancy. And from this simple fugue, It remains my singular heart desire to evade the devil and debts, the subway rats, the landlord, his wife, and then, those saccharinic writers, for besides their painful fraudulence, I dread even more, the malady that comes from being a student of many masters; so that now, I am driven to fondling instead with the minds of only the most misplaced of souls, The one you would not read, The brat-pack types, The down and dirty fools, sons of forgotten mothers, Bastards of literature, whose composed works are not page turners, But will upset your digestion. The ones whose poems keep out the sun in the attic window, – at least for those with some soul. I am one of such. – a remarkably errant creature. View all posts by Chuka Nestor Emezue