Killin’ the Hummin’ Bard

Surprise a writer by not telling them how good they are. Don’t clap when they read their poems in public. Nod in silence. Bookmark their blogs. In silence. Read their work. In silence. No flashing of book covers to show off. No quotes either. Admire their aesthetics. In silence. Fight the urge to text them “wow” compliments in their Facebook/WhatsApp inboxes.

Totally ignore them.

Don’t tell a slam poet how he murdered the metaphors on stage. Go silent. Let them wonder why the world doesn’t say something.

Only then will they wonder whether they are as good as they think they are. If they are good, they’ll keep doing what they do, regardless. If they are not, lack of noise will eventually drown them. Tail between their legs. Retreating to their egoistic crevices.

Perhaps, all that mattered to them was the noise.


People who have favorite writers or poets or jazz musicians are lazy readers and listeners. In fact, the whole act of idolizing an artist is an act of perjury. A monogamous marriage of arts. Shit we used to do in high school ‘cause our exposure was minimal.

Treasure Eliot and Homer but also acknowledge slam poets. Move like wind through literature. Do not be confined to one era of lit-error-ture.

Explore. The earth is round while the universe is infinite. Planets die and become people. How can you have a favorite chapter in a book? Do you call the skipping of a porno movie to the juicier parts an art of watching film really?

“Do you fools read poetry or you just skim thro’ it?”

Killing a writing career is easy. Praise the writer and give him awards and accolades. Maybe a space in a local newspaper where he now has to trim his creative libido into a word limit every week. He starts to entertain the thought of him shaping public opinion. Pay him to think. He is no longer himself.


Contemporary poets. Thank you for not writing poems that rhyme.

Rhyme in poetry is like bombs in war. Bombs just take the fun out of war. War should be blood from knife/sticks/machete wounds, fists, slaps, ear biting, torn shirts, shit in pants as men go head to head, while women and children cheer them on.

But bombs? And guns? Those are for cowards looking for a quick fix. It’s rape. Premature ejaculation. There’s no winner or loser in that. No glory at all. No metaphor.


Writers who bow before a god or vote should be shot.

Art has no beliefs.
The truth is art’s forbidden fruit.
It’s older than light.
Wiser than time.
The truth is that which makes sense to you and not which’s riddled with ‘facts’.

Writing a best-seller is easy. Get a good publicist and not necessarily a good publisher.

Writer’s block is for dummies. Lazy fuckheads. How can you not write? How can you love, hate, fuck, drink, walk, eat, die and not write? To love or to fuck, that’s creative energy in motion. Words in e-motional form.


How to find your muse:

If you’re a middle class writer, get a single-bedroomed house in the neck of the woods. Convert your bedroom into a study. Have multiple sexual partners. Masturbate once a week. Always have a beer in the refrigerator. Take a vacation. Don’t marry young. Kids and spouses are a nuisance. Write journals/memoirs of all places you’ve visited. Hop into your car and drive somewhere to some lost place. Places like women’s thighs and jazz lounges. Wine and culture. Spiritual and philosophical experiences.

If you’re a hustler, look around you. The stench, the wretchedness of the ghetto. Ghetto dwellers are nihilists. Look how they clog the streets with polythene. Build more churches than schools. Queue to vote for elusive hope. Write about your dead parent. Your hunger. Dead hommies. Prison stints. Your beef with god and white people, rich people, fat people and hood rats. Write about crime, rhyme and blunts. Switch rap verses to poetry and freestyles to prose. Go with the flow and don’t edit your manuscript. Serve it raw.

I, 2, 1, 2.

Mic check.