City of Amnesia

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City of Amnesia

Poetry

Jide Adebayo-Begun

Jide Adebayo-Begun 2007


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Contents

Introduction page 4

Prologue 5

City of Amnesia 10Arbitrary Cantos 14

Canto of the Yellow Blood 15Accident 19Colour 20 Article of Faith 22The Maestro 24

City of Amnesia II 26Arbitrary Cantos 29

Canto, Caves, Fragments Lovesongs? 30Cutting-edge Canto 33Siren 35Season 36Contentment 37

City of Amnesia III 38Arbitrary Cantos 42

Caligula 43University 45Sango of Enwowu 46Cassava 48Time 49

City of Amnesia IV 50Arbitrary Cantos 53

Under the Bridge 54Stolen Canto 56Mating Canto 58Prayer 59House 60

City of Amnesia V 61Arbitrary Cantos 62

Water Poem 63Language 65Watery Questions 67


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Generator page 69Violence 70

Lambent Street 72

Arbitrary Cantos 76Spoon 77Witches Canto 79Moremi 81Despair 83Genesis 85

Epilogue 87


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IntroductionThere are two dominant voices in the City of Amnesia. The first is a poetic narration of themythical city by the ailing persona. This necessarily takes on the coherence of formal recall,and authority.

The second voice is more jarring- the City of Amnesia is a city without memory and only thestones sing- the second voice reports what the stones sing and they sing intermittentlywithin the starchy, measured voice of narration. Their songs are called the Arbitrary Cantos.

Jide Adebayo-Begun

LagosApril 2007


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Prologue

I

Come! Come! Man, woman, child, beasts and daemonsIn the four corners of earth and beyond-Hear! Hear! Leave your finite cares and worries,Your furrowed brows and whimsical pleasuresCome lend me your ears or that which you useTo make sail in a giddy sea of dreams:For I have one eagerly to render.

A boon child of oil and water wedlockOf human disease and a grain of sand

For the muses are nowhere to be found,I suspect they- with their pretty facesOlympian arts and sacred song- are deadFor what death would purloin the king swimmerIf not the traitorous limb of the deep?

What sloughs the prize fighter to chthonic sleepBut a slim fate in the fine points of war?So it is that a hundred and one bullsOf chaste and harmonious Pythagoras

Bloated the fair children of Memory,Calculus, Hamlet and 9th symphonySome two thousand, five hundred years later-

We made a quantum split in earths innards,A thousand severed souls for every bull,Hundred thousand more for the unknown god,And they traipsed their last in HiroshimaWe whined aloud in nauseous flowersOf becoming death, destroyer of worlds,Not sparing a thought for the gaudy nine.

Their sisters are dainty Quixotes sayingGrace to the effluvium serenadeMonkeying fifty an Eko warrenIn the gaunt beast with romance sobriquetAnd I, smug in the entrails of Lagos,Sweat of Lagos, tired gore of Lagos,


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Per-second monoxide douche of Lagos

When ailing Leviathan plods sicklyIn the commonwealth of happenchance

Gobbling some millions poco a pocoAnd wolfing them down with lambent motifsOf ten-year olds tyred stiff in whore justice-I caught a lethal bug and slouched to StateClinic, to die my postcolonial death.

II

Body becomes an iron carapace

Sniffing out life and love, cladding the guts,Festering rheum in the pores, loins and liverEyes become purblind mildews expiringArabesque numerical on russetMunicipal ceilings and death kept tabs,Making grim scat on purple irises.

Ailment prospers as a cruel gulagAnd manacled with me is a sad taleBright, sorrowful-chewing the roots of hope

An infinity curled up in my mindOn hourglass din ofAgidigbo drum,She is ample, ambulant; this one taleIs a dizzy belly champing mirage

Of garrotted continent breaking free,Balmy. Calmly healing in supine mythMy sinuous jailbird is a quicksand,A prodigious moment garnered from bitsOf ragged and distended centuries,Gagged in a sea of syntactic troubles:

Who shall set fettered eternity free?

My tale is life crenellated in lineAnd each line now craves its own crowned goddess,She spits out a chance of lyrical germ,Stretched taut, brooking no block; my mind wrung dryIn catatonic haven seeks release


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From the eunuch responsibilityWho shall set fettered eternity free?

The sea cleaned out one day transporting self

To brother sky, unleashing pale globules.Down here thirsty warrens floated neck-deepJocular as when big, unloved belliesStrain thin necks and nimble feet in puddles,Singing of finical boons of dead mice,Soggy fleas and some obstinate body

In egalitarian Jacuzzi.Down here some local chief unwound the rainWith a pompous vintage ruminating

Over the shy spoil crouched on the bed, wontTo bury times wetness in rented thighsPink with luxury- flowers, butterfliesAnd poetry can only get greener here.

III

Touch-button gloss of death, wiry stubbleSingeing straight to hell: I graciously pined.

A friend cried in the rain, nodding to life.He knew the underworld language of death,The jagged hearth was no stranger to him,He had dined with green denizens of earth,All cures were pretty maternal in his eyes.

This good friend propped me up and called a name:Aiyeda: An ancient land with rich salveIn gritty barks ensconced to spill their milk.There universe of vertigo will chasePain away. Fussy commonsense will chase

Vertigo away. Cold vigour will chaseCommonsense away and all shall be well.

The moon will glisten; the rats shall pilfer,Hot-air nuggets will pass from loving earTo loving ear, tick-tock giggle apiece.The world shall be restored: we sailed fairly


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To the grail, a pilgrim hallowed by pus.We ambled over the malignant toesOf plenty gods dotting sable Lagos

The lagoon passed us by, moaning get wellAs lusty fishermen tickle her wideBosom nubile with fish, horny with bilgeWe denied umpteenth ware of umpteenth child.We sped past lean, petrifying sky rise,Thus Lagos an eternal delusionTurned a limping, snorting pillar of clouds.

And Aiyeda is a child frolickingIn plush green, I want a cure; but she lolled,

In jaded Yoruba inertia: CURE!Get me to health and get me out of here.Bring the magic chalk, enthrall my feverWith fancy geometric reticlesConfound illness, cast dizzy shapes to root,

Speak the lost language of invisibleSavants grubbing wisdom millennia old.Where is the ancient magus who has dinedWith the daemons of the seven mountains

Who retains the praise name of every sapOf ill, ail ever to suffer nerve, flesh-Alas, a short, sloppy, herbster arrived.

IV

And I knew gone are the days of gnome-likeShamans with a library of hundred gods.They bore me on to Aditu River,And was made to bathe in sand, in torrents,

Arsenal and stingingprcisof words.I was choked on her stony creepiness,Left to find my fate in dust absolute.

There a bag of the rich humus was filledAnd eyes soon fell for the gift of fatigueI woke up to an enigmatic sight,


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The bag kept throbbing, weaving and bobbingIt winnowed out a tiny, lilting voice,Like the hourglass din ofAgidigboDaemon of fear flew out from my spirit

And knocked down the garrulous bag of sandIt danced, twirling upwards to air and earthColours broke out in smoky clarity,I saw hazy outlines of a forest,And the grass was greener in a giganticExpanse of land, brittle dust and I knewI was entranced in a mythic constant.

Soil reeled sonorously to wind lyric,

Moved in an ordered, tele-guided form,Was she hypnotized? This great grand ladyA billion years old, moving like that andWrenching curious silhouette from void-One cat, pair of glasses, misshapen headOf a goat, bottles of beer and stiff shirt

Of a dead tyrant complete with tinsels-Then a little crack and a little fleeceIn time. I peeped: air was cooler inside,

A different world, not mine, I saw purpleRocks, protuberant trees and fat anthillsI thought I saw a bird sallying northVermillion like blood, bigger than Concorde,

I saw a golden, crinkly leaf soft likePendulous breasts, the air smelled lostThe song had begun, theAgidigboSounded an anonymous planet,The Odidere myth of earths wonder,Lost story of the Amnesia city

Gently I stepped into a grain of sand.


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City Of Amnesia

Gently I step into a grain of sand.But I shudder from the fall. I have foundA new kingdom in a grain of sand. ThereIs no salt or juice there. I feel the pullOf a patient arm, standing gingerlyOn one leg. The city rests glumly onThe gay, slapdash night like a bad conscience.

Her strangeness is seductive. I see wideTowers in gigantic trees of amber.I am an expansive road; alone andWeary, wondering how I wander away

From my earthly route. Shrill voices cascadeOn the crack of thunder. Sibilant tones.Have I picked a friend in them? Wait, listen!

I can pick a muted Obey vintageAmong the alien tongues. Racy heart.Legs in motion. There is an uncannyBeauty to the loss of name. I moveCloser to the belly of the city.There are human forms innumerably

About; drifting in fluid absolute.

Suddenly I can no longer hear theObey strings, and I approach a man Sir,I hear the music of my land and hearIt no more. He hugs me and I ask himFor his name. Whats my name? My name! My name!He quips, thumping his head and moving on,In lost thought. Words are lost in this kingdom.

Sharp cry pierces the night. I turn to seeA dutiful woman bear on her backThe stringy head of her child enmeshed withA dire purple-blue body doggedlyBy one thin and pig-headed ligament-A little, rutted mash secured firmlyBy hand-woven girdle slanted with grime.


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There is a smile on her face. People passHer by with thick smiles on their faces. SheIs arguing passionately with a stone.She strolls back and forth, and violates the air

In her frenzy. I move away from her.A thick crowd is gathered at the streets endI move towards it. People form circle

Round their subject in captive attention.And there a dog wags his tail and lecturesIn short, concise barks, riveting the crowdOf humans. I run away from the streetInto another, and am almost knockedBy a flying horse in glimmering night.

It is the Pegasus of nothingness.

A haughty man comes down tall from the horse.Immediately, the crowd leave the dogAnd someone starts a song. They pick it up.Regal dance. Cold frenzy, his coal-fireEyes are aglow. He whips out a sword andGyrates it menacingly at the crowd.This intensifies their passion. The man

Plunges into a run, crowd following.I also find my legs running along.He sees a pool of water and swordPlunges into the pools solemnity.The man strikes wildly at the flustered run.I hear the stones singing. I try runningBack to previous street but I cant find it.

Even the road gets lost in this strange land.And the stones are singing. In a city

Without name only the stones deign to tellThe story. Illumination is greatIn the city. It bounces on a deadBody or two. They do not talk to oneAnother. They talk past one another.

I catch a glimpse of a man falling down,


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Gaunt and spindly, he mildly keels over.I have met gangs of honey-tongued robbers,They steal peoples anger with guns and clubs.They steal their legitimate fears. And notA man or woman or child have I met

Without a broad grin lolling on the face.

The man who rides the flying horse tiresAnd sheathes his sword. Mounting his horse, he givesA ringing laugh. And Pegasus flies upBut comes down. Its ascent and descent isOne linear motion, like a lift. The manLaughs harder. In his laughter I see theHorse has forgotten its destination

And the man his destiny. He frolicsAbove the Pegasus of nothingness.The nameless city is not a cityOf dreams. It is a city of fate. CeaselessYams sprout in abandoned places and getTrampled on. They kill the seed. They dont plant.They mistreat the road of its destiny.

It is a city of miracles. Theres

No milk or honey here. In the cityThey till the earth without love. The roseateHeart is blighted in the sun. Fresh tendrilsMust flee memory to bud to fruition.And the stones keep singing. Here they worshipAn indefatigable god who cant

Hide behind his works. Under the unctionOf the man who fights the sea, the man whoRides the horse of nothingness like a lift-The city without dreams knows miracles

At all times. A tall figure approaches,Bushy-haired. I move. He smiles, twinkles green,Intelligent eyes, motions me to stop.

I am Odidere, your chaperonIn the city of Amnesia. I haveBeen expecting you. Please come along and


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If you will, your cure shall be complete IAsk him what the stones sing. Ignore it. TheStones do not sing. No! Not songs! They onlyMake arbitrary Cantos. Ignore it


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Arbitrary Cantos


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Canto of the Yellow Blood

InA blinkOf instant sheenEcho bouncesBack her voiceIn mirrors and secrets

Beholden to galactic basinsSpread-eagled on the cramming turf belowThe cramming bed

Inside lives are lived on liberty: a pennyDye, wizened kolanuts, a mess of smokedFish dappling oil keg ambientIn mosquito coil aura-

Echo bounces back her mindBetween the chinksIn the family photo-Free air into the past, sodden earsOf the Scheherazade streets:

Please a story to pass the nightA story to masticate the genes- Please!

Thick chump of sootSwatting commerce and foul airAnd underground serenityIn a mentally innocent city-

Echo bounces backHer outragedPudency at the polyvalentMarkets where polyvalent guiltIs sold by polyvalent gods-

Echo moaning in farmsteads,Fastidious riverbanks, in pausesBetween amber and green,


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Hasty infinity between amber and red-

Echo calls out her mutilated voiceAnd monkeys

Snivelling voices samplingStrangulated reason over swills of beerIn toilet truths,In graveyard zest,In classrooms,Appearing ill-cladBefore historys baroque antechambers-

Echo bounces back her frailtyAt the haughty dust

Moonlighting on historys fine garmentIn window framesWhere bright flies are taughtFecund evil NietzscheNodding wisely to raceOf horses in cloisters of wine-

Echo bounces back her scorn;Flabbergasted, stunnedWhen history

Crosses the Rubicon and ashes begin to fallOn the children of pyramidWith their one god per manAnd mathematics-

Echo bounces back herBewilderment and fragile prideAt the mouldy labyrinths,At the Jews harangued, for theEli Eli la mach sa Bach Echo sings along to theBorgesian tiger riding the circus of life and death

And access to life-blood and death-bloodIn blind, absolute totality-

Echo tearfully nods her fateWhen master historyBanishes her atom-recall voice to the chthonic forestsEmbowelling the sea,


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To ill-gotten, ill-sought, ill-perceived possibilitiesCrackling happily on the supple boughs of gangrene trees-

Echo daubs her tears

When the piercing scream of Aiyelala, woman asCauterized justice echoes in swollen belliesThat dare the malice of water-

Echo curtsies her destiny before the comelyAquamarine throat of the state-as-leader-

Echo bounces tiredlyIn flurry of chaste paring

By the rose-tinted down of god-as-tyrant-as-person-in-stateSawdusting in surreal dreamsOf two-tailing daemons, in underground hearthsBellying its own triumphsSnubbing its own triumphs

Echo bounces back her voicelessness at the songOf two-tailing wildsFlailing themselves, falling in love,Licking his spittle, fanning his groin, suckling his gore,

Hailing his myth

Echo bounces back her brand as historys unabashed shameAnd happiness and rose-tinted tyrantGrows flowers in his nostrils and anus and eyes and armpitsAnd pores-HyacinthsConverge dewdrops in his brains-

Echo becomes weakened

In the exasperation of our god,In his body heat hes becomeSelf-less, no self, self-as-state,Total oblivion of being, one union of callus-as-state:

Slowly Echo bounces back her voiceAs the voice of God


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And rose-tinted tyrant cries hard for the fallacy-A state should not eat her words-

Echo bounces back her derision

To the vertigoOf the rose-tinted at the fury of two-tailing dogs-

Echo bounces back her aweAt the forceful implosion of the tyrantBefore the lake filled with the yellow blood of the dispossessed-

Echo bounces back her eyesAs the tyrant sees his image amblingOn the film of lake- surprised, hurt, aroused, bemused, in terror

In abysmal hope-

Echo echoes resoundingly as he firms his heartOn the vertical thrust of the muted destinyCut down in yellow blood-

Echo sighs the fall and impalementOf the rose-tintedAt the whistle of two-tailing minions

Becoming a soul with theRestless rivering of yellow blood-

As the voice only the voice and the voiceEcho dropsPin by pin-HurryingForeverOn the crystal pate shining on

Nothing


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Accident

Rattle-sounds, guttural snicker crawlingStealthily upon

Bitumen varnish- it bears appointments, keepers of rituals bothMundane and sacred

Hurrying to still the anxiety of a child, anger of a lover, fulfill devotionTo ones gods

Robbers, hypocrites, saints, a dose of ordinary people who had learnt to

Accept the mobile miracle

Then weary mouth yawned, its rheumy eyes blinkedSisyphus becoming unbound, skidded wildly for freedomThrowing the boulder at a screech:

Free-fall, multitudinous din in hundred languagesEgg-shells monkeying-With banana

-With palm-oil-With blood-With a dazed eye-And a twitched nose

Free-falling past air, free-will and prayer of beloved

Not even one survived the treachery of rot, steel and motion.


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Colour

One day the gods in an ad-hoc meetingWondering what went wrong with manSummoned the great colours of the earth:

- In came the scarlet MisterWhite,White is our pretence for nothingness,For the blindness that always precedes every beginning

-Red strode casually in, beating time on the talkative Bataensemble,Red is of death, of life and the antipodal ping-pongEternally being tossed around by the two

-Green appeared with a thousand-member entourage,Life is green, green trees, greenish abundance, greening things.

-And when the green nausea rushes to the throatAnd the road is blocked,We see the pale euphemism foryellow

-Indefatigable blackcame late; with a violent tongue and a cudgelHe was holding brief for death in the nether world:

Black of vermin,Black of the first civilization,A big pot of forgiveness- the mindless black,Black of the visceral elements,The universal blackness of chaos,Picassos Guernicais blackThe ancient bronze heads of Ife and Benin are only ashamed of their blackness

And just when black has lost its potency, brown heralds the era of the laughter phase:

-Tactile brown of the three dimensionsDusty brown of hunger,Grey brownness of war running wild in the bushes and dodging landmines,The caked brown of the hem of unwashed skirts,


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Pock-marked shoes which have seen more adventures than wanton Columbus,Psychotic leaders appear to be brown in their tragic mindlessness,They are victims of brown prowling demons eagerly painting the soul to their instinct.

- Finally the morose Miss blueWhen civilization has gotten to a head,The blues of narcissistic love,The blues of melancholia,The blues of personalized existence,The blues, the blues,The lonely blue of the death of the soul.


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Article of Faith

Hold!Hold sternlyTo the finer pointsOf your bread!

It is notOur baked garmentWith its civilization of brine,Lust and lice-

Nor ourBitumen eyes, leaden runnels

To the taut alluvialOf ashen bowls

It is notThe orange moonlightOver the leathery sheenOf our Fulani brethren-

WhereThe feet

Have known gloryFrom Niamey to Lagos-

It is notThe anguishedCarnality that passesSour grapes- father to son-

Nor is itThe one-eyed glintThat raps knucklesOn wanton children...

Or theSharp-tonguedInjury of passers-byHere and there-


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It is notThe darkness danglingOver our heads, drippingSalty lyrics from our mouths

And when time comes remember this:

It is a time-worn catharsis, the peace and contentment of a nondescript soul,The quixotic ejaculation- It is an innocent muse lurking in bedside mirrors waiting to belch:

Ah! I do my bit!In this world I do my bit!


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With bountiful dreams.


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City of Amnesia II

In tongues of the dead, theres no forgetting.Odidere says to know the cityOf Amnesia you must trace the pockmarksOf blood on unsung stones, on the dingyPathways. You must follow the scent of bloodTo the alluvial of buried storms.Odidere says one must ride cycles

Of immolated skulls to the parchmentOf history; there you will find the scrollScrupulously written in the blood ofThe disinterested. The scroll mothers past.

Past is full of bunting and lavenderTriumphs. But her face has been scarifiedBy the ones who keep all time in their pouch.

Odidere tells me the city usedTo have a name of renown. Their name rangIn the land and on the sea. Their name rodeThe air, scattering fast deaths to haplessEnemies. And the more their name deposedEmperors and sundered civilizations;

The more they grew to love it, erecting

Signposts of feverish rigour. They castStern monoliths with bellies big enoughTo grub their sins. The name was triumphantIn all earthly corners. This was the crux;The name stopped feeding on the peoples dreams,It started feeding on itself. One dayThe people woke up to a shattering

Realization, there remained onlyOne more country for the name to feed on.They rushed to their king; a fierce man withCoal-fire eyes. Odidere tells meHe had a sword secured with a thousandHeads. Wherever the king earthed his sword,All things made of iron became his slave.


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Arrows had been known to strike their shooters;Swords had been known to decapitate headsOf owners. The king was a myth in war.And he it was who rode the flying horse.

When eyes beheld the regal PegasusOf nothingness, even legendary kneesQuaked. The land surrendered without a fight.

They welcomed coal-fire king with songs, and bowed.There was an anguished joy in the names heart.As the king was riding back to city,He saw a shiny brook. He was fagged outFor the want of war- exhausted with peace.He drank from the brook. Taste of the water-

A mixture of honey and morning dew-

Was a marvel to his throat. The brook couldGive fruits of the womb and heal. Throngs besiegedIt all day to salve their wounds. The king lovedBrook and declared it sacred to his name.All accepted without question exceptA little snag: the brook was alreadySacred to the name of Obatala.

Purity god, savant of destiny.He blessed a tiny village with the brook.This was patiently relayed to the kingByBaaleof village. Coal-fire eyes flared.And rage consumed unwitting impudence.Seven days he thundered, seven days andNot a leaf must remain in the village.

There he would erect a palace of stonesTo the name. Pegasus of nothingness

Neighed, man and beast became dots in the sky.On seventh day, coal-fire king became theHappiest man in the world. No one leftThe village. He moved his men in thousands.They were entering when a little scuffle

Brought an old man before kingly justice.


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Odidere says he was from far lands,Had travelled many moons to taste of brook.And this he must even in the face ofA thousand soldiers. King took defianceFor insult and ordered the man beaten.

Eager men trampled on the purblind head

Of age and pummelled the man in the wilds.Grimly, the man blew a handful of sandTowards the city. Odidere saysBefore they could chance upon a fly inThe village, several bespattered men cameTo the king with dire news. Citizens hadSacked his palace and killed his family.

They said the king had grown weak to lead menIn the name, they said his heart was secretlyTarnished with love. They called for crown and head.The king went back to the city where kinFought a ferocious battle for the name.They fought without fear or passion, they foughtWith antiseptic logic. Many died

Under the severe spell of injured age.

But compassion becomes Obatala.After seven days of death he sent themA gift of forgetting. They warred no more.But the gift took away from them more thanThe desire to war. It took awayThe vestige of the name; the names chapter.

The gift finally took away the namesThunder. This, Odidere tells me, isStory of the city of Amnesia.The stones keep singing. I can hear the songs

Through muted Obey strings, the virtuosicMusic of my land. But OdidereSays its nothing. Just arbitrary cantos.


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Arbitrary Cantos


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Cantos, Caves, FragmentsLovesongs?

Love comesThreadbare: lean, innocent-Like a spine.

Your love comes whereThe birds are mooning;Hung precariously in theirClovered nests.

It comesWith the forgotten fate of a droppingA soft-walled egg pulsingIn hidden dark nests.

We germinate in obscure cornersOf the house,At the edges of sacred china.

Being in love.Playing love.

On fragile twigs.A wink at iridescent fatalityOn charred rooftops- I loveThe glimmering felt of your skinI am in love with the severe grinOf your dark nipples marinatedIn wine, spouting a wicked purple

Mantis loveWhen one consumes the otherAnd resurrectsAnd cancels out the other,Egg-spidery love,I love the sporadic gaiety of your breasts-Marinated in stained blood goddess.


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I love its hue, its ebb and tide,I love the twin towers not needing terror or myth.Scylla and Charybdis.Of their own terror or myth.

Obstinate love. Telluric chance.We play the tenacious feisty loveOf roach life-forms shipwrecked on porcelainSurfaces, a stubborn clingDefying the flood of insecticide.I love your slippery lips,The treacherous alcoves of your eyesThe slithery inlets I want to see with your eyes.

Somnambulant love-On an arching tower, I am the kingOf tomorrow. I love your blood,I love your incarnationsOur love is marooned inAn obscure book where my fatePlays out in dog-eared mystery,I love you with traditionalLove, a stiffness gingered by sceptreAddled by power.

Your love comes extra-logical in wisdom,I love the assuring enormity of your bosom,The incomprehensible pleasure,Numbing iron point.

Dark.Sensate.

I love your rattlesnake morality,

Your careless solidarity,The rare fields of fear, the hip hegemony.

I love the tickle of our fugitiveVoices echoing in disused gutter,Squatting in shallow dug-outsIn ritual footpaths the colour of blood-


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Cutting-edge Canto

The straight knifeIs not designed to build,It is to put apart,To make unwhole

The cutting edgeDestiny of knife is to bleedShy serums from theRotten finger of the earth

The tremulous

Hinges of a nationNeed a knifeA weakened heart

With weak tendonsNeeds a knifeAn indecisive marriage, a wrongFriendship, a fledgling child

A besotted raceAt the deathsCanny precipice;They all need a knife

Knife is the solitudeOf un-pretence bringing graceTo tedious finality, it cleans outInsidious creation

Or the redundance of it.Put apart, never failTo put apart for thatIs the beauty of it all.

After the sweat of labour,Shock of birth


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Tingling loveFor all phenomena created,

Putting apart shall immune

Us from boredom-Cut out the babys heart,Slash through the penis of growth

Scoop the blind eyes outSmithereen the weakenedThe Darfur, happy NigeriansTraditional hearth

Nick the tortoisesFlawed wisdomBut leave the post-modernPriests in Versace and jerry curls-

Do not cut them out;They play noble rolesThe cutting-edge duty ofMending cut-out purple souls.


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Contentment

A long-legged fly sped grimly onSailing the air, dodging carelessly thrown armsAnd the malice of colour and dust, malice of enthusiastic AfricaIn cool of evening, this long-legged fly knew its purposeBrooking no excuses and exerting itself to the fullest

Of a million drinks, a million cups and a million laggard loafersIt chose the bubbly froth of my glass,

It took in the smell, heady with pleasure,It sipped genially, whisking its fly and eyed me

With arrogant courtesy

Then it fell to, swimming, bobbing, flailing about in theUniverse of bliss, then after a long while it floated ashoreAnd with one last flicker revealing contentment and a fulfilled destiny,It winged its last

I drank in this contentment with no small pleasure.


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University

Fresh tendril sprouting up to be devoured by books,I grew here, tinder became wild fire:I consumed and consumed

Beer, books, Schopenhauer and the lonely coin, Ogun of the hillsBats flying tales bats alone can tellHopeless revolt of young blood initiating into dross:

I found warmth hereThe myth of sour bellies was taken seriouslyIn dingy lights we changed the world, filing in

The outcome with soot to our lungs and spills to the godsWe swam, but reality is a faster swimmerShe caught us in the belly button,

Swivelled us to the barren skiesOf forty-seven AKs and lunatic gangstersBurying their mates in shallow-minded cavern and fraternity

Swivelled us to the conclave treacheryThat produces our chairs,Papers with no lambent flame

Laboratories with no zest and no ratsLame Vulcan slamming head against the smallness of visionWhen we crashed

Some survived to fleeOthers to roam the earth for foodBeing only trained for dead slogans in un-living languages

Others didnt surviveThey married and bredLike mice.


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Time

We all serve one god,A lone muttering god

Gnawing insomnia and shovelling imprecations on the head of the earth:

Hes sick but would notDie- shrivelling his wake

A white canvas of infinite possibilities. This time: he actually owns us all.


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Arbitrary Cantos


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Under the Bridge

For one itsThe shadow-minded joyWith veneer of compostKingdom.

There are tributariesOf retired barrows,Aging excrement

And the soft purl of a newborns templeFeels the moist apprehension of motherhood.

Even the leaves find a CERN-like

Space to experiment reproduction onSplintered glass.

Constable Uche- black-stripedDenizen of the crossroads-

Makes snappy visits to stash the bribe and smoke a wrap.

So much words for a penny book,There are markets here where they traceThe destiny of MichelangeloThis debris is a polymath of freedom

Many waters are under this bridgeBut they are here to stay-In this positive energy

No one needsFear a fall.

Tenement of many dreams-


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Of many rooms: Kunle honesHis kicks before his shine for Arsenal

And stays here, Rasaq sharpens outThe laws of power, selling for the timeBeing in curlicues of ash on the

Splintered head of Medusa above.One by one Crusoe knows noVertigo in the monomaniaOf the view from under the bridge.

Do not despair,There is more thanIgnorance in Platos cave,

Afterall hyacinths hasten their soul awayFrom the boorish darkness but when they taste the sun,

It is a sad fruition to death.


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Stolen Canto

Halt!You go stop the workadayFolly of pilfered smugnessToil upon toil you pileYour golden dung in the gushyRecesses of your little lilting heartNow we shall stop it.

WeAre the only one mobilityIn the crypt of dead logs.We are the violence of bland

Dawns just after the itinerantDoom of hapless millionsAre sealed in vaulted sepulchres

Move!The earth abhors a haltAll is one grand move to where-Afterlife? In a day's job of harvestingYielding coffers in unyielding heartsA need occurs here and there

And we cannot but exert

BOOM!The full brunt of our tradeAnd it's over- the gold, the praise, the swarming fliesOn the carrion of beauty, the deafening sirensMasquerading a pockmarked garment of hungerWhere is the impassioned promise, the astute affinityThe false necessity of crazed fingers and itchy pen?

WhereIs the heart dying to ventureInto the sea and slit open theWarm trembling blood of love,Where are the dotted chieftainciesCreaming out a deranged poisons resumeWhere will they all be?


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NotThat we seek redress. Far from it,We are just artists schooled in the alma mater

Of blood our nation is,We are the garish darkness in the blind city-But it is always the conceit, abject optimismNourished by the tube

FluttersA fatalistic leaf in hearts defianceA sly move, a sigh, two winks,A thump of phoneAnd we must,

The professional consequence:BOOM!!

BOOM!!! BOOM!!!!!!!!!We drop, we slash, we moveGrab it, grab it; just grab the necessityAnd we get the hell out to bury to satietyThe infernal semen in wild hips afireIn a besotted land where a grumpy Caligula ridesRoughshod over the commonwealth of circumstance.


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Mating Canto

Do you know whatThey say about you:

They say you areThe dark ochre casting thorn sprouts

On a field of poppiesThey say the careless glitter of your eyes

The sybaritic streets of your laughter

The warrens of discovery;

Lips of treasure fastened on an opaque mareYou are the radiance of poets

Jet-black lush stringOf hornet. Clamp me

With love and inThe dream of your sigh

Let me leave myBody and wander

Among the unlimitedOf this world

Let me disdain boundaries let meSee grace let me respect death


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Prayer

I pray to you ancient thought,This tiny thought that spun the stars,The worm in the sand,The lily-livered vegetable,Hitler and the Internet: I pray a simple prayer of the lost

I know you are the god of malice,And of malice I want my wordsTo sail to you. None of the geriatricGoodness. No bland importunationI know of this world enough to recognize where true power lies

Therefore listen;You muted head eating the earthPiecemeal and asking yourselfWhy you should not grub it whole:May each days confusion never truly pass the day

May the headContinue to think what the belly will eatMay the belly not eat hope,

Feed fat on despair and finally swallow itselfMay our lives continue to roll on blindly, never hitting any mishap that will show the light

Then soon on our deathbed,May we just catch a glimpse,A faint, anguished moment that tells usAll these careening had a purpose andNot the complex language some Genius uses to serenade his drunken dog.


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House

A sunny, somnolent dust and

Oya blows fair, cool wind

They are building a house:

Nave quilt of wood arching upwards to the indifferent wide sky

With clouds bearing their singular quarrels with mighty dignity;

They will adorn the house with the metallic foot of Sokoti the steel god

Wrought with iron love and foundry caryatids

Quiet artisans brooking no poems

-There will be union

-Children will defecate

-They will cozy up together, revelling in their own warmth

-Hunger and dare-devil robbers will strike

Philosophical robbers that moody about the Senate and power:

They will snuff out sunlight to protect themselves

But they shall survive it all,

Love will germinate here and

Death will catch them in the cold


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City of Amnesia V

Beyond arbitrary cantos, a scaredVoice knits the thread of our shrivelled tendril.The boy has lost his imagination,And his art. Daemons now ride his warrens,They own his secret places. They consumeHis inner meat. His curiosity.His intuition weaves a touch exotic

To their shrouds. But say the boy discoversA whiff of trance. In time-warp, he lives it.He creates the lambent street of his dreamsAnd stores the material of his world there.

A street replete with the gods of thought. MindIs reborn. Initiative is well-fed.Hopes fibre becomes indestructible

Love comes to view. Say the stuff of his dreamsIs a sacred gourd. And the boy lives hisDream in Odideres finest impulse.The stones keep singing and they will not hush.In the city with no memory justThe stones can sing. They say loud what they see

In the boys dream they see a clumsy grip.


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Arbitrary Cantos


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Water Poem

LanguorIs the seas cryCircling the motion of

Languor

YemojasSmokescreenSeduces aPlanet of dustAdding thin glass

OverFoamy bloodCreating vengeful

Things

SeedingIn the seaScreamingLanguor atNo mans pikes

BlindingOne cretin eyeWhen Classics seek

Languorous

RouteTo IthacaOf theirDestinyAnd mere

PlaythingsHave worn thinThe amusement of

Languor swarming


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OverThe eyes ofBlue godsGiving wayTo greater

LanguorIn OlokunsBrow knowing

Now the nautical

Pros and consAnd FaustsCorruptibility

In the zeitgeistOf grey languor.

NoFish to cryShip to wreck

The titanic

Can no longer sink

Atlantis hasChanged addressOnly languorBecomes the

Race of menAnd dolorousLanguor besots

Astute mermaids

Like menRowing glumGalleons inNothing butLanguor.


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Language

A polyglot that speaks in million tongues. That is what the body is.

The beginning and the crux of the matterIt speaks the language of food;It softens itself up to be shared byAramaic comrades and eaten as their lord

It speaks the language of water,And every night in our dreamsWe are visited by the citizensOf the sea in their encompassing blueness

The body sometimes mimicsThe tongues of the birds and try to fly,We see the sky, the stars and simple footstoolAs one big shed and plaything for humans

To casually colonizeAnd despoil likeMagical Van Gogh

Who cut his ear to spite the nose

Body sometimes suffersFrom logorrhoea- an excessive stateOf body languageThis is when civilization really begins

Mind does the talking,It takes in its own pills like impressions, dj vuA million dark necks manacledIn Badagry and the mind screams in protest

When you tell a small child to go to hellHe begins to see huge yellow tonguesLicking up his father who would eventually get there,Licking up his teacher, licking up his wanton friend,Licking up his persevering mother


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And a race of people inAgbadaand long speechesHis father always greets bastards!, bastards!!Whenever they switch to the News at NineThat is small mindedness

The really big one is the vicarious fanaticismWhat you feed the mind from behindBlows up to become world languageImaginations are sunken to complexes

The world yields to the silly caressesOf thinkers and makers of deathYou begin to get great vocabulary with gravity

Genocide or what, Post-colonialism and neo, Christianity and post, Terrorism or not.


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Watery Questions

Does the water cry?Does the water know when time will end or Jupiter will fall to manOr soldierly Papa Jato will finally die on cue?

In her freedom, she does not know that no impudent metreCould ever caress her ample waists

What says this lurid Lagos lagoon on this lurid Lagos morningTo the crabbing paddles of indefatigable fishermen crawling her breastsOrThe iron stretch mark of per-second Lagos

Masquerading yesterdays darkness greying on her soft insolent capsules?

In her Babel silence, she cannot imagine some grave GaaRiding rough and silly her generous bosom

Why is the water shy when hungry Lagos mates endlessly the point of the seaAnd the ensuing Seamen are the yawning bilge safely cased inThe free blessings of astute menAnd more astute gods in form of men?

From her gaudy parties, may she just take a glance at the myriad prayerOf this sickly myriad hawker?

Last night they passed, last night they cut her,Placing details particularly on her amber eyes,They cut her, piecemeal; for the water in her amber eyesAnd in her Calvary gaspsThey dreamt the glitter of their Midas gold

For her dirty ways, should she not eavesdrop on the young girls dark screamAt the end of the road?

In twinkles of time; the poor souls throw merciless accountIn her leviathan intestines:


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Of prised, white bones and caked, withering tooth,Of workaday sanitary pads, ash-butts and robbers dreams,Of witches nightmares ubiquiting the canvas of poverty,Of a bone here, a tooth there and historys head-driven nails.

And on this brilliant Lagos morning, she is stillWetting her coconut nipples on times sober violations


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Generator

Blue-black tinkeringThing from Asiatic infancyWill Sango own upTo your handiwork?

You shame lightWith your filth and noiseDrumming incessantlyOn my machine-shy, provincial lobes

A dose of darkness is good

Caligula says Rome was not built in a dayYou post-modern engine germ of sootIn the blind city, it is your time

In the dark sun and you will cask usSoon, tireless mythmakerInto your monoxide haven of fastenedBreath and humourless death


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We have survived and we call ourselvesThe commonwealth. We work, live andCopulate; man as a gregariousAnimal. So when some hold reins

Of the commonwealth, and despoilThe collective fruit. Not givingTo each as is due, but wallowingIn all, like a poor, deranged childIt is the second violence, violenceTo the keeper and the deprivedAnd the denied will see but pretendNot to see. Shed tell herself its

All right. That the lord does not forsakeHis own. But the dreams would say somethingDifferent, the demons of lust andDesire will seize her. Riding herFever to what is hers, then she willWake up and fever will strike her mad,She may not cook again, or boilThe yams, or till the land or nurture

The children. That is the third violence;

What she does to herself. Her mindWill be filled with violence of manTo man and how one single violenceWill shred the earth, the violence thatCalms down all violence. That is theFourth violence, the violentVision of religion


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Lambent Street

Odidere shows me the vision ofHis sacred gourd. The lambent street is aPerfumed orange grove; glimpsing a snatch ofMusic from blades of grass. Secretly ImTaken to the fortresses of wonder,I behold the artifice of mind dancingOn edges of void. Intention: Was it

Terror? Or simply unconscious rootingOf consciousness? An ancient column ofAnts bear lion cubes to the infiniteBetween my heart and yours. There was Gods peak

Olodumare: supreme, alone, vexed.Disquiet in him created BailaAnd Ile, twin demiurges. One controlled

The skies, dangling his wobbly groin overOur woes. The other is mother earth, softlyGliding our feet daily to times troubles.Together they made a being, AtundaIs the first progeny and he tendedGods flowers. Immense creation. Then the might

Of a boulder shattered the first stirring

From the blue void, and consciousness becameUbiquitous. Then a slip- eternalPyramid was fragmented. There his partsFormed the elite pantheon, lords of variedConsciousness. Amoral receptacleOut sprang Ogun of hunts, ObatalaThe penitent pure, Oya of malice

Of wind and shadow joy, Sango the brittleThunder and five hundred more. In lambentStreet the ants do not forsake their gifts ofShining cube measured against the measlyPrimal consciousness; they lolled themselves onAbject particularities neglectingThe heart of God is an infinite gift.


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Men be a little lower than animals?And the air runs amok with pollen specksOf invisible daemons from a monsterUniverse. They hold our knowledge and fateIn a sack of dust and they are our brothers

And sisters. They suffer the in-grown gnarled

Toe-nails with us. Why should there be mind? WhatIs beauty? What is pleasure? We do notHave a soul. Take away deception, youTake away the earth. Perfect love existsIn silence. In heart of void. And real fiendIs that which creates. Annihilation isOur true kindred. So the mobile history

Of ants shovels handful of dust intoThe little breach between us and the stars.Why should they be kept on and on, hungryOf body and soul, blind to life, blind toIllusion of life? They are dust. The soulOf my country reflects the ignoranceOf mankind and the depths of idiocy.

Nothing works. Not even lies. There, youd also

Find, are potholes of hazy truths. The streetPlays museum to one god. A verticalLunge, eternal pyramid fragmentedBy wily hands of his own handiwork.I will sing a paean to the first stirring,The first frost from the voids jar. Iota

Envies the mind of grace. But we do express.We painted a chapel red, we spoke toNature the tongue of numbers and she repliedUs with our innumerable secrets.

We are the earth. We are the children ofInfinity. We become gods in ourFallacies. Our mind is mightier than god.

And totally we eat dust. The gods mustBe our repository now, they should beThe total storehouse for our musings and


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Arbitrary Cantos


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Spoon

One day an old long-suffering spoon had a stern word or two with his boss, the mouth:

Why do you salivate on me so, you coarse, throaty idiot?I am a tall, gilted pride of iron, I am cool in cool places, not a showman,

And though my neck be crooked and bentThere still lies the power of the timeless ore of pre-history

When nature hadnt succumbed to this vertigo of speed and deathGoodness was good and the bad vigorously bad,

Our God was the centre of the universe then, our cold god of iron and stone.

But you? Who are you? Who owns you? What is he made of?

You are nothing. A whiff of smoke.An unbearable lightness of being.

To you I am eternity. Yet with your serpentine tongueYou swipe me, and clang my graceful nape

I hate your marks, I hate it when you form a cicatrixOn my dimpled face like I am one of your Ibadan kinsmen

Except for a lustre ever so faint, I hate to shine. I am not a man.I do not rush over food; jittery, famished, godless and afraid of tomorrow.

I am a luxury, how many of your kindHave a hold on me? I dont mean in Sudan

Where the Nilotic are flayed for being NiloticWhile the world probes the semantics of genocide

Or the Chad where in the tidy apparitions of their president,Hunger is just a tool of propaganda

Or in the perennial scrawl of death clingingTo the jagged face of the African hearth

I mean in Nigeria here, in the gigantic Lagos slumopolis:In Ajegunle, in the swamps of Isale Eko-

In a thousand Nigeria- when they finally see the goddamned thingThey fall to with their hands like pigs


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Witches Canto

To all my sisters in the four corners of the earth,Health and wealthIn the name of the maternal breasts,

I hope life has been good,And the blood still sucks,Have we been up to the times command?

Have we been blessingHumankind with our handiworkAnd the pleasure of our tongues?

How many foul blood have we drunk today?How many accidents caused on tumescent roads?What about that anaemic child

At the turn of the shack at MushinWho is fed Garri and coconut,Scrawny like a rheumatic fowl?

Have we snubbed the offering existence made of himOr have gratefully accepted it,Cracking his tired bones and slurping the marrow,

Wishing it could have been better andEyeing covetously his fat, diseased motherWho is only spared because she is also of us?

What has happened to the girl of fifteenJust seeing her cycle, have our rotten teethNot sampled the yaws of her thighs,

Feverishly guzzling the freshest fertilityEver before the advent of the slickly gunThat froths creamy white in fleeting exhaustion?


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We say we have done all that and moreYet, the wide world lies awake, naked in sin and filthAre we not the settler of hash?

Let us move round, fanning wide, accounting forThe foul end of foul beasts in foul timesWe are the nemesis of the hungry,

The nightmare of the depraved and deprivedFor those who are blind, whose rulersHave ensured a sordid existence,

Who cannot sing in their own voiceAnd dream in the language of their forebears,Who have shunned the imaginations of their past

And unlearnt the skillOf their heritage,Yes, it is our destiny to torture them,

To serve the guilt,

To do the storehouse of woes and syntaxOf blame in the epic of an unending misery.

Let us the witches finally shut the lidOn the ubiquity of anguished cacklesSucking air in alienated confusion.

Let us show them that we are of the earthAnd like the earth, bare our breast of uncaring milkTo the thirsty mouths suckling at dust and chewing bile.


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Moremi

In Ile-Ife whereThe street cobbles areForever whetted with lonesomePassages of provincial gods

Moremi grows her cornAnd thinks of the lonesomePassages of her son, OluorogboIn the streets of triumphs

The Igbo struck,

It was a mere joke, theyRazed the hearth and scaredClassical bunting out ofBrown gods relishing fineBronze heads

But Moremi was just beingNo-nonsense. The lordsOf Ife had grown soft on art andTheir womens bosom. She did

What was to be done and her sonIs no more-was it a deal ofMother courage selling us the historyOf her own contrivance?

Anyway the song is redolent still when theAgogo weeps for just a mere goat,A mere ram and the sweet whimperingOf a mere child.

Yes she has passed on to a croaking songAnd lineal motifs of stone inFront of the female hostel, the remainsBeing thrashed up and down by localPoliticians- Moremi develops airs

In unusual places, they chronicle her tragic


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Beauty in Cuba, they raise doughtyWomen in her name in Bahia, PeopleSwear by her in foreign tongues reservedFor flowery virgins and effusive whores

But where can she be nowWhen trussed and trashed inLittle corners, gossiped about,Killed, sicced on by chimericalMosquitoes, even theStone is cracked in the head,The one in front of theFemale hostel in Ile-Ife,The dawn.


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Despair

WhenYourLegsBearYou

On those unforgettable Pathways

OfSpiritAcid

MordantIncubus

They call you are called

NoOneKnowsMy

Name

Scrawls the jaded being

NoOneNotEvenGaia

The Chameleon of my death

AndTheyCallIt


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Wrong

They scream an impotent caterwaul

NoAmountOfBloodShall

Make the pate shine

NoDeathCanBringLight

To chaos. And no man. None


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Genesis

The yolk that spits seed and fire must fix itselfA meal of origins from the condiment of alternatives

There is no beginning, theres no end

No scratchy grain of sandNo chaos, no slink of words

This, in a nutshell, is the road:

A bubbly wind is imprisoned in a boundless mirror,The wind breaks tinsels on the oblivion pate and syrups fastidious atoms,

Atoms mothers supersonic algaealgae scatters tassels of lifeWithout eyes or malice- ultimately, we do not choose our friends or our death.Or the dire outcomes of Nigeria. No one knows tomorrow.

The yolk that spits seed and fire must fix itself

A meal of origins from the condiment of alternatives

This, in a nutshell, is the parallel road:

No word.No earth. No life.

No fruit.No fire. No germ.No breath. No death.

No constant Northern starNo convoluted dancesIn the market squareWith all whirling in the motion of sweat, love and being.


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But we took the road, no?

No.The road was not totally taken

Because of a stain in scarlet man,A little crack in the earthenwareAnd harmatia so

We killWe make love,We incinerateWe make artPontificating perspectivesOver the million skulls of green tendrils

There is no camphor to make an even keel

We rely on the gulph of laughter and forgettingTo leaven the mother memory of the earth.



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Epilogue

As I left the city of AmnesiaOdidere gave me gift of sacredGourd. Go and dream the little changes atThe delicate corners of your world. PickIt up and expunge the alien daemon,The avarice motif flourishing inThe heart of the commonwealth. Drown it in

The searing wisp of song, the death motifEschewing true apprehension, gut it out.I asked Odidere how he shall sustainHis lambent street and he told me he is

An old soul. Chameleon will. In my world,He is the elusive bird with embersOf chaos. My world shall survive, he said.

Documents

City of Amnesia