Cubist-Cityscape by Lyubov Popova.

“There is no advice for young poets” – Pablo Neruda.

~ o ~

Neat tricks –instrumentals and phonetics fusing with sentiments,
Nitric acid to make the base (bass) placid,
Plant seeds in their minds – when they harvest their memories they’ll call this a classic!
I am a. Classic. Tragic. Chinua-Achebic. Hero!
Okonkwo before things FELL.

APART from your beginning they never forget your demise,
I’m loving my rise but look in my eyes I’m already pained by my demise,
Dim eyes glued to flickering lights,
A dream dies at a rate proportionate to the plights that inspired it,
My thoughts are a sore sight for your third eye,
I don’t sleep nights because I’m chasing my dreams,
Cursing at sleeps cousin, I’m not ready for my mama to start weeping coz of any grim reaping,
Even when I’m sleeping, I’m going places I’ll shine with words to make your sun rise.

A given standard for genius is a modicum of lunacy,
That’s probably untrue but I’d like to justify why I’m channelling the Victor Van Gogh in me,

I sent my ears to a harlot,

Now before my insanity makes you holler profanities allow me to elaborate,
I sent my ears to the moment Jesus wrote in the sand for Mary Magdalene’s executioners,
So I pay no heed to unwarranted negative energy with reason to believe all beings have beauty in them,
I invite you to cast a stone – I see it coming, I still can’t hear you though!

There is a new generation of Queen and King-poetics – creative writers, the likes of Wamathai Warugongo,
I’m engineering intellectual tectonic shifts just to be a part of the movement,

Preaching; we shouldn’t be afraid to proclaim the roots of our beauty in spite of the progress we desire,
So even though most people won’t realize what has transpired in the next two lines I’ll still say,
I’m an inspired boy from Gatundu who grew up in a Nairobery where South C was a hollywood and making it to Alliance was a supreme dream, to sharing narratives across an entire global village in real time,
Everyone has a story, what’s yours?

In an age where we had Tuff Gong as a prophet rebuking mental slavery I’m thinking like I’m free and trying to be all I can be,
So I pray to a Christian God but still study Zorastrian texts and the Quran,
I’m Bamboo and Doobiez with the spirit of Pablo Neruda,
That’s a sly linguist with the soul of a dead poet,
I’m not even sure what a poet is, I’m just expressing myself,
Examine my pallet; my mind is a palace on a cubist artist’s plateau – Lyubov popov,
Artistically autistic; the gifts are not immediately apparent,
Middle earth without the great wall, Terra Cotta army dancing in my sub-conscious,
I’m marching across a desert escaping captivity,
Thinking longevity, I’d rather be Aaron, see Moses didn’t get to see what was promised,
So I’d rather be a Salva Kiir though we still salute, love and pay respect to John Garang,
I’m like Muki Garang, my purely poetic logic is ahead of my time,
Still spew knowledge even if it’s unacknowledged,
We live in a time of diluted truths, concentrate!

© chaka sichangi (his blog)