“Jon told us to come,
are you the poet?”
that depends I say
“you aren’t him?” they ask
“I may not be a poet” I say
“but you write poems,
we don’t understand”
“it’s smoke and mirrors”
I tell them
“woman down the road
thinks she’s a lady –
she ain’t no lady
the fellow at the corner
acts like a millionaire
when he hasn’t got a
pot to piss in
and there’s a lunatic in the
White House claims to be
there is madness and falsity
that much I am wise to
and see true”
they leave and
I write a poem
for better or worse
and the world
continues to twist
in grumbling agony
as this absurd
the most farcical show
someone cleans up the blood
and the destroyers destroy
not by drops
but by legacies, historically
the significance fades and
familial lines fade to fact
you would think the cleaners would tire
of cleaning, but each night
before the day’s salvo is unleashed, persistently
they scour our hearts, our souls,
our shell of futile purpose comes anew
and we learn, through worn palms
through weary eyes, through damnable truths
the identities of the cleaners, individually
the identities of the destroyer in us all
as we pass another layer of cleanser
over the mess of humanity, desperately
smashing mirrors of disappointment
the shards staring, each in need of attention,
of confirmation, in need of our approval
before the next round hits home
He picks up the traffic cone
and with both hands
he waves it over his shoulder
like a baseball bat
screams YER A BELL END!
and the other guy backs off with his hands up
DON’T BE ROBBIN DEM!
he steps forward, swinging the traffic cone
DARE MY MATES IN DARE!
he swings and swings, IN THA SHOP,
DARE MY MATES, YOU EARIN ME?
and the other one,
and with that
he slings the traffic cone over his shoulder
he marches into our shop
and he says
JUST STOPPED A WELL-KNOWN FEEF
FROM ROBBIN YOUSE DEN!
OW’S ABOUT SOME KINDER REWARD,
and I’m afraid
it’s a no
and I’m afraid
it’s a no:
why’d you think
he brought the traffic cone in with him?
Listening Frankie Goes to Hollywood
I’m peer over this Place.
Men and women want to build a stellar life
As soon as possible
Imitating the old stars with compacted dreams
Saying to us the “strange POETRY’ sentence:
“There is no exquisite beauty…
Without some strangeness in the proportion”.
There are countless reasons
To fall in Love with Hollywood.
Evidence logically assumes the form of a found object
Or a found image.
Stars speak through stamen
Hear through the petals of a Daisy
Wash up after work, eat dinner
Have a beer, go to bed
Working for enclosing their lives in the spectacle.
The light is very clean and soft
An early spring day,
Wo/Men are radiant from within
We are alert enough to see the radiance:
Le cadavre exquis boira le vin nouveau
The exquisite corpse will drink
The new wine with Marilyn Monroe and John Wayne.
But the ritual of the fame is out of tune
Has vanished the Wo/Men are .
She who’s rite meant wrapping a place
A “holding spot” around wet, newborn whore
And he is employed in some manner
If their sources are sufficiently remote.
Films and signs:
Motherfuckers and whores
With the greatest diversity of species-
The foat all mind giving Life
Under the Star of Film-Illumination
The active more ever renewing Mind
Of primordial spontaneous Wisdom.
The retired stars are also here
Building their homes from the adobes of the West
The whites, the blacks, the hippies, foolish transients
Recorded with native birds and insects in the background.
Who could ever start, Mamma Mia, here¡
Hollywood is what is seen.
There is what is not.
There is what is inside and what is without.
It is all real. And it is all false
While it is either real or false
Or partially real
Adios, Mujeres y Hombres, y viceversa.
Que les vaya bonito en Hollywood.
Yo sé que estáis contentos
Por dejar vuestras tristes vidas
¿A que sí?
Goodbye Wo/Men, and vice versa
Good look in Hollywood.
I do know You’re happy for leaving
Your sad-looking lives.
She/he is in America, silly¡
Always be a noble man
even on a foundering vessel
stand aside and let the frail fill the life-boats
Accept death calmly
and endure your going
hence even as your coming together
There is nobility in the world,
not everything is darkness
ergo ally yourself with the good.
“Ripeness is all”
I met a lonely woman.
To whom hope was a luxury.
She was a maiden to misfortune.
Her dress, an interpolation, of curious eras:
Half medieval, half stone age.
She stood bending, like a moon walker
Tired of this realm of man.
Mid-term of life, her song was soured.
Sheaves of grieves
Were the harvests of her world apart.
Sowing in pain and reaping tares.
I met a lonely woman –
Haggard, bereft and worn-out;
Unkept and disheveled.
Staring like an apparition.
Clutching at life,
with shivering resolution.
Eddie Awusi is a Nigerian writer of Isoko extraction. He graduated from the prestigious Delta state university, Abraka in 2007, where, he got a Bachelor of Arts degree in English and Literature. He has been published in Dissident Voice, The Australian Times, Tuck Magazine and other numerous magazines and anthologies. The pen and paper; are his playmates.