26

A weekend novelist among other mighty sins. This is my undoing. A fault line in my humanity. The unsophisticated ramblings of a lover of silence and magic. In this here place I may abandon decorum, discard clothes, expose my cerebellum, and forget if possible the debts – or so I fancy. From this simple fugue, my singular heart desire is to masterly evade the Devil, 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. Now, I am driven to fondling the minds of only the most misplaced of souls, the least self-aware, the ones you would not read, brat-pack types, down and dirty fools, sons of forgotten mothers, proud, bold bastards of literature, whose composed works are not page-turners, but who upset our digestion. The ones whose poems keep out the 4:00pm sunset in the attic window. I am one of such – a remarkably errant thing. Chuka N.E, circa 2014 View all posts by Chuka Nestor Emezue