The Way it is

Hey, dudes, I have not posted here in such a while.I have good excuses however, massive hiccups in my digital and analogue life, couch surfing for a good few weeks, mistaken identities, bank account cancellation, it seemed the gods were against me!

But I triumphed, slayed the digital dragons, taught demons a thing or two about darkness, took them to the pit and left them to contemplate their own morbid existence. Ha! Be Gone Vile thingybobs!

I lost you right? It happens, that is why we have steering wheels, so we can turn backwards. So I am now going back to the basics, to survival, eating and copulating (with regards to literature) I am reading a lot, keeping all the new info inside, sketching out ideas for other things to write. Recent list includes Paul Auster's - 'New York Trillogy', Malika's Kitchen's - Storm between fingers', Kim Trusty's - Darker than Blue, Khalil Gibran's - The Prophet (I will revisit from time to time, the dude was A DUDE) Nii Parkes' - Shorter, Next is 'Lovers, Liars, Conjurers + Thieves' by Raman Mundair, and after I will delve into the world of Octavia Butler baby. :-)

It's like that, and that's the way it is.

Hope you are well. Will be getting back to grips with my mailing list soon, so join if you have not.

Inua

Prodigal

All candles are cousins of the sunthe moon their foster mother

the waters, like some sorority sister pledge to always reflect her light

dust are daughters of the giver of life, all grandmotherd by nature hugging tight. In this patch work

order, this twinkling night all men are prodigal sons

we alone journey to spirit city yet earth remains our home.

© Inua Ellams

The Way of The Nerd.

Lets pretend they weren’t plastic.Let’s pretend those one-inch toys named Billy the kid, Clint Eastwood and John Wayne, were more than drastic attempts at escapism; that nestled in my front pocket, they tore open the terrain. Let’s pretend my belts were horse reins and the mop between my legs was a black bronco named Buck. Let’s pretend its mop top were horse manes that flicked wild to my hummings of rolling rolling rolling raw hides! Let’s pretend the flattened bottle tops cellotaped to my trainers were riding spurs that’d make the bronco buck wild. My backyard was Texas, all tumble weed, no grasses and you would catch a glimpse of me, gold rimmed glasses, shorts too short, knees scuffed, mother’s pride and joy, ten years old, scrawny arms, Nigeria’s first cowboy;

Whilst the others believed in Thunder Cats, He Man and Turtle Power, mine was the Grand Canyon’s sun settling across rocks formed where nomads scour.

Everything then was cowboy themed; those trainers were purposefully campfire singed. School books were saddle bagged, paper’d with wanted posters, strapped with horse hair, wrapped in cow skin, wrestled from a coyote, one vicious and lean and my pen was no simple implemental thing, ‘twas a cactus spike its tip - fine hay, I’d dip into venom mark posters, plot ways through English classes mastering the western drawl, to math lessons where gold was a hundred’s haul, to lunch times when juice was a liquor filled flask, I’d lapse into lands of bulls and hay bales; spent months hidden in these wild west ways,

Till one midday, when the dust divided, three unprovoked shapes ambushed then chided, their shadows formed a premature night. None could hear me calling through their fists flying past, those dudes were wild Indians, the moon was a traitor, left in that dark side, crater faced and feebled, punched floundering, almost unconscious, I accepted the bullies’ riddle: I’ll never know the reason why such wicked boys be. To cease the pain, I took the name; they labelled me “The Nerd”, the logic being glasses framed the word, no quibbles.

And beaten in that brawl of a peaceful cowboy’s tragic fall, heard a subtle something, a desperate mantra playing: he who lives to run away, lives to fight another day, (this mantra holds the nerd way). So my pen, still cactus spike, its tip - fine hay, dipped into backbone, stirred the marrow till boiling bayed, fought through legs to these elder brighter days. And still I am bespectacled, still good to run away, but now I know sometimes, fists bring forth the day, still pockets full of cowboys, ride least thrice a day, once for metaphor, twice for simile, thrice so reading, rhythm stays, still juice, now apple cider, books bagged in satchel old, which holds this tale, none finer, of this trial I struggled through.

PuRplE RaiN - A Dream

I am secretly learning how to fly.This mainly involves practising while I am dreaming, meaning the possibility of dying is greatly reduced (then again people say if you die in your dream, you die in waking life as well – see Matrix movies) - we all gotta start some where. So, flying in a dream once, I came across a storm cloud dressed in sheep’s clothing, I immediately saw through the disguise and zapped him with my pen. It rained purple. My wings got so wet I had to land and shelter under a banana leaf. When the rain had stopped, the sun came out and dried up the land. The water went but the purple remained. I saw choirs of Cheshire cats meowing in unison, their white fur stained, rebel chameleons casting ultra violet shadows, Violets venting pollen at the world for taking their individuality. Purple, a colour associated with the supernatural, so readily available, caused spontaneous small miracles to burst forth: wines were re-watered, vines pulsed with Evian. Leather chairs sprang to life and immediately ate its inhabitants, glass revoked its transparency, parrots developed their own language, snails out ran cheetahs, humming birds discovered opera – never will their wings beat sweetly again.

Flabbergasted at the destruction my careless penmanship had caused, I set about trying to rectify the situation, flying to cloud communions, asking if they had seen a lilac water congregation, a semi bluish fog, a pink mist, anything. They all declined to answer; news of my escapade had reached them. As I left their presence, and old cumulous took me aside and told me of death. The storm cloud having lost its colour, flew to the sun and died.

So everything purple that isn’t naturally purple is a remnant of that cloud- its only evidence of existence.Everything purple is meant to fly.

Yeah, I didn’t get the dream too.

Inua ~ Phaze

Joe O’Brien

Work In Progress Number One. This is SO Overdue, here are the first few verses...

Joe O’Brien ------

There’s a thing to cotton that is unforgotten by the breeze. In its absence, the loss of wool wearies all who’d else stand fast. Filled with flecks of boulders and bales,

that breeze will blast past the shoulders of slaves and masters alike; reminding that regardless of status and might, all must face the cold.

now, we be the pheasants that pasture as the breeze blows; we never sleep. With bodies bold and ways ever forward we hope that all chaos found folds.

In our ends, where daily crime notices mark the roads I know a young boy called O’Brien. He is a character that cotton missed, one played out in street corners

in after school detentions and tired police cells in the hollowed centres of solitary hours where none save music keeps the brain’s sane well -

back pack filled with spray cans, eyes piercing to stare, head nodding to that preserve of sanity pockets filled with air...

stay tuned, and happy Newyear.

Inua ~ Phaze

Like a star

second work in progress. ---- All poems are daughters of dust; they don’t fear death, They are the end-of-things given breath.

Like seedlings become saplings to siblings yielding… like bricks to buildings which crushed become dust again,

these daughters don’t fear death; they are the end-of-things given breath... ----

stay tuned. and have a good Christmas.

Inua ~

Entry

I am teaching myself to be epic. It begins small. -Trying to draw a pencil tip whilst using the pencil tip. -Asking seeds to grow inside me, then swallowing them. -Pretending to be 1/5th of the wonder. -Trying to breath between heartbreaks. -Writing the beginnings of theories as text messages, -Then texting them to Yemisi.

These things serve mainly as filters, that when the rush of everything I don't control (which is pretty much everything) comes, they take lessons from pencil tips and seeds and come in small sizes. I can't deal big. Anymore. It takes training now. What happened to the fearlessness of that 19 year old that claimed to juice the Muses? Or the 21 year old that claimed to have mistaken Bud-wiser for the Milk-way? I am too young to be this old. And too old to Catch myself at 22 (geddit?)

So to combat, I am trying to be unafraid of the fearlessness, to be epic again.

It begins small. -Drawing tails under every full-stop, so the sentence never stops; -trapping stars in pinhole cameras -echoing echos -echos -

Inua ~

Light

In the graveyard of candles,you will find: only their wax works For wicks belong to the sky.

life owes us oxygen for acknowledging its existence,

Inua~Phaze

Blink:

erm...this I guess is just a story-esq thingybobwhatumightcallit. The last time I blinked I blue-tacked mirrors unto the insides of my eyelids so I could see myself un-bathed in light. The secrets I saw averaged the rites passaged by many men before me, we men are known for our majesty in keeping emotions un-flown, so unsurprisingly I saw (in the eternal solitude of a momentary blink, I saw) the uprisings of friends I am yet to make amends with…

Three unspoken ‘sorry’s hung in mid air, three beacons beckoning that I be man, and dare to speak them. The sorry story that stood out the most was a tale ghost-written by the guardians of things-not-meant-to-happen, I now know that hope is a drug that blurs truth’s be, this one involves she…

She… had lashes that lazed the world, hair that cascaded crazy, these locks that kept me captive, I did not seek freedom, wanted to stay captivated by long looks and the flowing mane of wild stallions born of powder puffs and pouts, she was gorgeous, thus the story stood out.

We met on a night ordained by the ordinary. The stars reflected in the windowpane dribbled mere suggestions of light, mingled with the rain. Told her that I would like to see her again and lip printed her left cheek, a week later, sheltered from the still-lazy rain, we first-kissed; our tongues – like dancers, lips – the dance floor, heart - beating the backing track to tongue-tip-tango. Kissing as though sent from Shango, sending small sweetened lightning bolts between us, like firework-flavoured mango. In this fruit frenzy and lightning shift, she tells me she doesn’t do relationships. That should have sent alarm bells ringing but I was caught between wild stallions and electric mangoes, I remembered was a ‘comma’ in a cascading kiss. Besides… honestly, no-strings attached loving was a luxury this boy could not miss… So I’m like “Yeah! Bring it.”

It is three weeks later. I now know her mind to be greater than her fine body’s form. I want to be the duvet that keeps her warm, to be there when her brain waves collide so I can ride the after surf till the morning comes. She senses this change in me, reminds me that she doesn’t do relationships, and I reply: “Yeah, I know”. But harbouring fugitive fancies of us with entwined shadows; I did not want to let go. It started with me holding on long after we’d stop kissing, with waking up at night to watch her chest rising and falling and perspiring forehead glisten, with whispering her first name with my surname, just “making sure it fits”.

She, sensing this change growing, started un-sowing those lightning seeds till our bouts became sparse forays where my heart showing would cause her to freeze. I tried giving her space to breathe that a graceful absence might make her see that though laced with thoughts of lengthening light seeds, I’m still the storm’s son of ease…

Till one night, one willowed eve, she told me she’d been sowing somewhere else. The unspoken words intoning that I had pushed past the fields of friendship, tried to grow something greater, - that type of feast, she just couldn’t cater, me getting so mad, to the point of starting to hate her: this lady I shared enlightened mangos with, I could not bear to see; that memory, mere… strange fruit, swinging where we ought to be.

And though knowing that I caused our friendship’s cold, I doubt if I’ll ever let her know. I’ll follow the footprints of men, and keep this emotion un-flown. I’ll back track past lightning lips, dance floors and powder puff pouts, paint myself a barrier and riff through it unashamed -This is the art of knowing one is guilty yet keeping one sane – if it starts to get too hard, that ‘sorry’ starts to strain, I will un tack the blues, blink again, again, and again.

Veronica

- Work In Progress- Veronica

- is the most magnificent woman in the world; I've seen her bench-press my family like Atlas does the world

she is a drum soloist on the door steps of doomsday, holding back the beat

she is a lamb with the soul of a lion daughterd by earth sighs and wind say ...

will keep y'all posted. Inua

Abdul Hafiz

The Following is an account of what happened to me on the 5th of March 06.----------------------------------

Soo... I am chilling at the bus stop in my mock b-boy stance right? Watching the traffic crawl by. Peckham high street – midday/morning/sun – armies of secondary school students with far too much testosterone, flocks of females in short spring skirts fanning the testosterone-fuelled fire, bus rolls up. I get on, find a seat and prepare to write about all of those things… Two stops later this cloud of alcohol and stale sweat hits me. I look up and I see an unshaven, dirty face scanning the crowd of passengers. I look back down immediately. Too late. The seat directly opposite me is filled. With him. I swear to Apple Trees! I attract freaks on a bus. It’s like they get on, scan the crowd, spot me in that –ahh! On of us! – kind of way and magnet their way towards me. Anyways, I am sitting down trying to write and not breath at the same time, the can of beer in the drunk’s pocket catches the bright light in the sunny spring day and glints as if basking in it’s own presence. The two old ladies sitting behind us grunt their disapproval. The drunk clears his throat looking directly at me:

- Who owns the bus? I dunno? Er.. Ken Livingstone - Does Jesus own the bus? I dunno… what? - Does Mohammed own the bus?

Then it dawns on me…I think “Dude, Do not get me started on theology, it is far too early in the day and I don’t have enough apple juice in my blood stream.” Instead I reply:

Your answer is as good as mine. I can’t prove or disprove any of those. Are you a Muslim? He asks. I have a faith, and it’ll end there. - I reply, really not wanting to discuss this at that moment, especially with a drunk stranger on a bus and the beginnings of a poem running through my head. Good- he says dribbling slightly - you have made a point that is better than nothing.

I peer at him through the fog of dried sweat and alcohol. He is wearing a navy blue baseball hat with white markings and text printed on the brim, a dirty cream jumper, an evil smelling brown leather jacket, and black thick rimmed sunglasses. He asks about my background,

I am Nigerian. - How long have you stayed here? Too long

He laughs at my short answer, revealing two perfect rows of burnt brown teeth, disappearing into a strange, almost knowing smile.

-I am Abdul Havis, I was born in Algeria, moved to France, lived there until I was 21, then came here. Okay. -But I don’t like it here, too much trouble, chaos, I want to move somewhere more peaceful, where the weather is better, you tell me, what is good about London? about today?

I look into the flashing streets, past the fire station and burnt buildings on Camberwell road, past the brown walls and faded posters, oil spills..

The sun is shining.

The strange smile dances across his face again…

-Yes you are right - He says disappearing into his beer can.

Finally! some silence. I bend over my open book and begin to jot down the idea for a poem. For about 10 seconds, there is the pretend of peace… then interruption.

-what are you studying. Nothing. - I reply quickly, loudly, exasperated -I am trying to talk to you- he says, a flash of anger staining his slurred speech I am not studying, I am a writer, writing, these are my thoughts I am putting down. -what do you write? - Short stories disguised as poem, or long poems disguised as stories, thoughts, feelings.

For a currently drunk drunk, his questions are coherent. One of the old black ladies beside me gives the mildest of sniggers, and I check myself. This is Peckham. Despite Camberwell college of art sharing the same area code, a black guy into the arts is considered a weirdo. I attempt to steer the ‘conversation’ away from me…

Where are you going. -to see my solicitor; where are you going? To the west end, I have a meeting. Why do you need a solicitor? -everyone does after a while; you need one in London. …

I am puzzled now, intrigued, still trying not to breath him in. He says the last line effortlessly, that strange smile returning to his face again. I stare at him more intently, at the almost black neckline of his jumper, dirty from a long lack of washing powder, at the huge red in-growing-hair puss-filled bumps on his neck, at the dried saliva at the corners of his mouth, thinking “eughh…” yet every part of me wanting him to explain about the solicitor. Nothing. No noise from him. Finally I think “whatever man, alcho asshole probably doesn’t know what he is saying.” I bend back to my book.

His throat clears: -My son died of cancer when he was fifteen. After that I started drinking, I know this is not an excuse, I know. But that is the way it is.

The way his words ricochet across my skull. My face crumples. The mocking look in my eyes drip past my lashes and splash across the bus floor. My stomach becomes this grand canyon of nothing. My heart goes limp, gasping at itself. I swear silently, wanting a stiff drink myself, not knowing what to say, or think, or feel… that strange smile of his beginning to make sense. We sit like this for the next five minutes, me, not daring to break silence. And his bus stop comes…

-it was been nice speaking to you- he says, stepping off the bus, into the dying day, as another book I had judged by it’s cover.

...

Inua~Phaze

Waterloo

Sooo…I am in Waterloo station to catch a train. For the umpteenth time I am wondering what *Pp (the current subject of my infatuation) would smell like if she allowed nature to take it’s course and morph into the titanium-tipped-flower she was meant to be; walking along, minding as much a business as is mine, when all of a sudden, this montain of a man shoulder charges me. I spin on my heel, watching the stranger swagger away like he has just defeated Goliath. He stands at least a head taller than me, looks about twice my weight, beer gut to match. He is the kind of bloke Portuguese-football-fan-death-wishers Want to meet in a dark alley in England. My first instinct is not to tangle, to shrug it off and keep walking. I comply taking a few steps away… then something kicks in. I stop suddenly: “you know what homie, naaa, go back, stop him”

So I do soo, I trot after the ‘gentleman’. “excuse me, Excuse ME” “wot?” “you just walked into me” “ no, you walked into me” “no, I did not, I turned around to apologise, expecting you to do so…” “no mate, you fucking walked into me” “no, I even tried to move out of the way for you” “no, I was walking on my… you watch… erm… fuck you, you wanker, Take THAT FUCKING SCARF OFF!” and he walks away, still swearing at me over his shoulder, me standing still flabbergasted, puzzled and spluttering - for a second. Then Day breaks.

It seems my scarf offended him. I was wearing this around my neck- scarf. The man thought I was a Muslim and proceeded to display his intolerance. Now, being judged by the colour of your skin is one thing, I’ve had experience, I am used to that shit. But being judged by the colour of your cotton is just ‘Fucking’ ridiculous. What do you say to that? The scarf is called a Shemagh. It is of Palestinian culture, not Islam, Palestinian. I guess this is not common knowledge, but it is still no excuse for the assumption, and greater still, No excuse for an action of that sort, Whatsoever, regardless of… WhatEVER. If I wore a kilt would that make me Scottish? My sister ties her hair back with chop sticks, she wears those little slippers with beads on them from India… mayne, I don’t even need to elaborate on this. Those of you reading this see how pathetic the situation is. It just… sad. You know? Judging Islam by the activities of Al-qaeda is like judging Christianity by the activities of the Klu Klux Klan.

Anyways, Later in the day I was walking through Vauxhall station when hope happens. There is this teenage kid dressed in a jet black Nike hoodie, hood up, swaggering like the ‘gentleman’ but this time with three of his friends. A perfect 2 by 2 formation. We are walking towards each other. As we get closer I remember the reports. The news reports will tell you that kids like this will mug you faster than it’ll take ‘em to drop 16 bars over a beat. Kids like this are watched as soon as they walk into a mall because they want to steal- naturally. Kids like this are likely to break the law. Kids like this have A.S.B.O.s, a kid like this, walking towards me, broke formation and bowing slightly and smiling said:

“Asalam Alaikum”

To which I instinctively replied:

“Walaikum salam”

Yes, perhaps he did assume I was a Muslim as well, but there was a degree of knowledge, there was understanding, whereas in the experience earlier, there absolutely nothing. …

Karma reasserts itself, a boy counters-sways fascism, And I tell you what, the balance was beautiful, I smiled for the rest of the day.

Our children are learning to name themselves.

This is for hope.

One. Five Inua~Phaze