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(Warning: this poem is full of shit)

 

I love you like I love the diminishing sweet cries of the sparrow in my head

I love you like the aphrodisiac cries of the sparrow which leave me with giant erections which last throughout the motherfucking annals of this goddamn poem

I love you like I love the avaricious palpitations of vulvas, like the erectile expansiveness of excited clits and the gracious moistness of lips which gush forth with goddamn sweet juices, like the imperial waters of Lake Titikaka

I love you like I love them femme fatales, who go on endless trysts with broken hearted poets in Mokotola East Side Motel, because they do know that ‘Poetry is Daybreak’

I love you like I love a salad of fruits, like I love Bananas; I love them fat, short, yellow and strong

I love you like I hate them fucked up Banana Republics, farmlands for them goddamned rogues and moustachioed tricksters, bald headed thieves, emperors of greed

I love you like I like I hate them breast featured in poems, even if the poems are Midnight Blues, composed by master lyricists

I love you like I love them angry poets, sex starved dreadlocked hipsters, and dopers who sniff ‘the powder of Lucifer’ granulated from the alcohol of words

I love you like I love them garlands and ballads and bards who feast on a banquet of wide hips and big breasts in the inner corridors of kwashiokored poems

&

I love you like I love them poems on hallucinogens;

Poems all high and fucked up on hard drugs, liquor, wine and alcoholic herbs brewed in the skull of ants, Poems all charged up on Bolivian marching powder and biscuits of dung, Poems that slit the throat of artistic orthodoxy, Poems that condemn iambic pentameter to a long life of servanthood in Dante’s purgatory, Poems that stir rebellion in the Republic of Poets, Poems that hyper-increase the madness of poets to the one billionth degree, Jealous Poems that smash the jugular of all motherfucking lovers of poetry, Poems that invert, Poems that convert, Poems that chase out brilliant students of poetry from the class, Poems that flog the teachers of poetry, Poems that emasculate the pig-headed cheerful vendors of poetry, Poems that squeeze out the fake throbs and trinkets of music in poetry, Poems that guillotine rhythm and its associated parts, Poems that declare the inferiority of thought and the supremacy of stupor

I love you like I love the band of holy desperadoes in AJ City:

Adonis of Wilmer, the light skinned poet who sits all night smoking pot and dreaming of the ultimate holy river of bliss and chanting songs to the night, the aroma of pot, the smell effusing from angry gutters, and the unclean body of holy prostitutes from nearby dens

Jack Kerouac of Boundary, the crippled poet whose daily dose of life is to smoke pot wrapped in sheets torn from the poetry books of Ginsberg, then go hysterical and learn poetry from nerdish bats, rats, maggots, slimy worms & by the last quarter of night teach poetry or what appears to be an ‘amalgamation of compositional gibberish’ to agberos, hungry looking traffic cops, failed hookers, garbage men & incompetent makers of local brew

William Burroughs of Trinity, the pot-bellied poet, whose non reckonable job is to rape a girl or two in his dream & thereafter stroll through the floating boulevards of his own mind to preach poetic rascality to a population of white garment wearing Sufi Rastafarians who are lost in their quest for the supernatural blue flame of poetic enlightenment

Gary Snyder of Arumo, the Robinhood of AJ City, gang master who leads a congregation of child rapists, paedophiles, pick pockets & hardened robbers who masquerade as compassionate soldiers & con men & pregnant teenage girls to steel books and poems from bookstores, libraries (the public & the private) & Holy Houses of God & scatter same across a spectrum of space; brothels frequented by the holy men of faith, madhouses for the very descent practitioners of black magic, kindergartens where toddlers are taught the intricate art of robbery, runways of filth where young models hone their whoring skills & pulpits where pathological liars pose tall as the unsevered tongues of the holy laughter of life

Neal Cassady of Tolu, maverick poet with the illuminated brain, who had a vision in the words of Ginsberg of ‘Mohammedan Angels’ who taught him the supernatural language spoken in the ultimate holy drunken city of light

Neal Cassady who gets high and fucked up on peyote, benzedrine, LSD, morphine, who drags connoisseurs of Jazz and uncelebrated poets in madhouses to sanctify the invisible halo of Haile Selassie, who staggers naked in hippie communes singing ‘Chant Down Babylon!’ and ‘Hala Hala!’

Neal Cassady who goes on mad rampage to burn every written book of poetry in AJ City, who leads a rebellious pilgrimage to The Shrine of Dagga, to declare the death of the written word and the birth of frenetic outpourings of gibberish & mind garbage & goddamn things after a vibrating orgasm of consciousness

Neal Cassady who leads a colony of half-naked nymphos through the streets to demand for free love, free assembly of rapists and thieves & legal dumping of filth & garbage in poems and gutters and the establishment of madhouses; incubators for hatching drunken poets, the very able vendors of life & enlightenment

I love you like I love the holy strand of the goddess, the strand which the goddess cut off from her locks in a brief moment of white bliss and love and which a stupid poet swallowed happily and ingested in his blood

I love you like I love the goddess, secret heroine of this poem & the stupid bard who sat down in the ‘Republic of Poets’ to spit out a drunken poem about goddamn things & similes vomited by a motherfucking goddamn bard

 

***********

Post image by AK Rockefeller via Flickr.

About the Author:

Umar Abubakar Sidi lives in Lagos. Sidi’s poetry chapbook titled Poet of Sands is available for free digital download HERE.

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I hold a doctorate in English from Duke University and recently joined the Marquette University English faculty as an Assistant Professor. I love teaching African fiction and contemporary British novels. Brittle Paper is the virtual space/station where I play and experiment with ideas on how to reinvent African fiction and literary culture.

4 Responses to “Poetry in the Republic of Love or A Goddamn Poem about Goddamn things & Similes Vomited by a Motherfucking Goddamn Bard | by Sidi Abubakar” Subscribe

  1. Pearl Osibu 2017/01/03 at 04:42 #

    Lovely. Superb.

  2. Yommy Windy 2017/01/03 at 10:27 #

    Let me warn the you, the reader, before you overlook. Before you even begin to make your priggish critique in puritanical narrow-mindedness. This poem is weird.

    “Blessed are the weird people: poets, misfits, writers, mystics, painters, troubadours: For they teach us to see the world through different eyes.” – Jacob Nordby –

    Looks like Sidi wrote this weird poem in the mad brazenness, spontaneity and familiar laxity of a guileless drunk. It’s style, incoherent beauty and candidness bears similarities to Jacob Nordby, author of award winning novel, The Divine Arsonist, storyteller, thinker, and adventure seeker whose many quests have led him to a deep fascination with life in all of its weird splendor.

    The only barrier to perfect freedom in life is FEAR of “radical honesty”. – This weird poem was written with radical honesty.

    “When you no longer need approval from others like the air you breathe, the possibilities in life are endless. What an interesting little PRISON we build from the invisible bricks of other people’s opinion” – Sidi clearly penned down this poem outside of his PRISON.

    This weird poem seems to say to the reader, “Just be yourself, Let people see the Real, Imperfect, Flawed, Quirky, Weird, Beautiful and Magical you”

  3. jet 2017/01/04 at 06:30 #

    Mr yommy, I beg to differ I feel the poem is neither truly spontaneous nor is it radically honest. The poem was engineered to look that way. I found it interesting in the earlier parts but later it felt like he was reaching , always reaching for something more provocative than the last, and it is quite algorithmic in construction.
    To be fair the author warned us (Warning: this poem is full of shit) so he is unpretentious about that. I’m all for Alcohol, drugs and broken people but over glamorizing it is also meh. Overall a good piece that I feel could be shorter the length takes away from the novelty you feel in the earlier parts.
    Lastly Mr Yommy poems are open to interpretations some are more qualified to do it better than others, but let a reader have his own tabula rasa

  4. Linusman 2017/01/04 at 11:50 #

    Like always, Sidi continues to enchant his readers with his untraditional yet captivating poems. This is a masterpiece, and what’s more, in the class of its own, unlike any other.

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I hold a doctorate in English from Duke University and recently joined the Marquette University English faculty as an Assistant Professor. I love teaching African fiction and contemporary British novels. Brittle Paper is the virtual space/station where I play and experiment with ideas on how to reinvent African fiction and literary culture.

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