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

Summer's comming.

Summer’s coming has been a long time… coming. yesterday I decided to do no work whatsoever. Anyone who knows me will tell you that this is incredible; my work is my hobby, the line between work and play is blurred. I spent the day hanging with friends, ‘rolling wit the homies’ you know… pretty uneventful things happened to us. We talked as guys do, you know, just stuff, our conversations revolved mostly around women and music. It’s weird, when I sit down to write something, I immediately think of the global subjects, of the broken hearted many, the faceless ones, and tend to write about them. But in everyday conversations among guys, I find I don’t talk about it unless a woman or music leads on to the topic. It just happens that way. Perhaps it is right that the way is such. If we all preoccupied ourselves with the dark sides of life, who will be there witness the light?

Stephen Camden, Polar Bear of the Urbanian Quarter’s baby came on Tuesday. He has a little boy. To the backdrop of this, The BNP did very well in the last elections, Labour came of scarred, and the Conservative party are on the rise. Bird Flu is growing, more troops are being deployed in Afghanistan, and the situation at home (Africa) is getting worse. I have not had the honour of holding my friend’s baby yet. But when I do, when I grasp his little fist in mine, I will look to Yael, the new mother and to Stephen, a musician, with nothing but the best of wishes to their future.

There, my thoughts will once again revolve around a woman and music.

Life goes on. Inua~phaze

...

work in progress…

"lady, you are a honey- combed back, that it's juice may run, freely.

you are a slice of smoke-soft-marsh- mellowed by turqoise flames.

you are a cupped palm of apple water, chilled with ice cubes of ambrosia, daily I delve into your center and drink you

whole."