A Word is Born

The quil blots its ink and a word is born

Hot Ether

whose gorgeous aura burns lambent like ether set on fire

Girl in Mini-Skirt

because a nubile girl in mini-skirt just walked by;

Spirit Soaring

and the Spirit soars in seminal poetics;

Poet's Muse

as the Poet's mighty muse parts the skies;

Universe Rattled

then the Universe is rattled avant-garde;

Whispering Hands

as two anonymous hands whispered to a heart;

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MY POETRY HOME — trespassers welcome

lone prostitute In This City Written at Abuja — Nigeria.
(Sunday, November 18, 2012)

This is a piece was inspired by a lone prostitute spotted at about 10:36pm (Nov.18.2012) at HQ FRSC, Kigoma Street, Adjacent Olusegun Obasanjo Way, Zone 2, Abuja – Nigeria.

1. In this city...
don't think me lousy,
loutish, lusty, lowlife or lost

maybe i am a collaterally damaged
avatar of the economy or
maybe it is just a natural lust in me
that makes me wander

but judge me not at any rate;
for your story is probably
no better than mine anyway.

2. In this city...
there is light everywhere
but i walk blind under an
assumed mask of anonymity

i sure am the familiar
nocturnal motif you see at
almost every major t-junction
where i cat-walk and look like
i have never missed a meal in my life
or just stand wondering who would
pick me up next for any fee

and sure enough there soon comes
a dashing prince who gets
souped because he is pushing a
two-door coupe tonight
even though next year he will
be on foot running from a lawsuit.

3. In this city...
it is a known unknown where
life is a game that every hustler plays
and whatever finds its way into this
terrarium is called business

history and wealth and power
can at short notice be transitioned
into a long-lived suicide note here

and it gets so sad when you try to
love them that use you and,
worse still, it gets even sadder
when you understand that there are
people hurting more than you and
almost every major rapport is
established on a currency note.

4. In this city...
of bounded free verse
of smug holiness and
of impotent power;
of a flourishing cabala
of poets, priests and politicians
who have words to thank
for their hoity-toity positions

all week long no one
jams their transmission as
they write and talk and preach
sermons of why my ilk
must be taken off the streets
but by the weekend they leave
their families and seek to sow
their wild oats in me on Saturday nights
then on Sunday pray for crop failure.

5. In this city...
prayers are not always
answered for sure
or for free of course

but hopes and dreams seem
to almost always come true
somehow anyhow

and so without a prayer
i go with this stranger who
will take me to a house unknown
and push me through a door
and take off my clothes
and turn on the red light.

6. In this city...
i have no prayers but hope —
a feeble glimmer of hope

the feeble hope that tonight's
business venture will be
good and he will not
pay me with an unsigned cheque

the feeble hope that he will not
spike my drink before getting me laid

the feeble hope that the prepuce of
his totem pole will not hatch
the Virus in me

the feeble hope that dawn's rays
will not find my body dumped
by the roadside tomorrow

the feeble hope that i will at least
sit at the table and eat my own words
at breakfast

the feeble hope that tomorrow i will
probably breathe with a sigh
as i struggle to remember
what did not happen the night before
i left my good folks at home to come
wandering in this city of
non-permanent eternity.

© 2012, M-Auwal Gene III. All Rights Reserved
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"How vain it is to sit down and write when you have not stood up to live!."