Directed by Richard Heslop.

This track was a collaboration between the spoken word artist Joshua Idehen, now of Benin City and dan le sac, better known for his part in the duo that is dan le sac Vs Scroobius Pip. Cupid on Dylan is essentially a monologue on behalf of the Roman god of love Cupid although it spins a more interesting, alternative character than is usually told. The poem is lain over a remix by dan le sac of Dylan’s The Times Are a-Changing. It doesn’t really kick in properly until the 1:30 mark but it’s an amazing track nevertheless.

Cupid on Dylan – Joshua Idehen & dan le sac

“That day, my good friend venus quit, moved planet. These days she’s so bitter the skies in her eyes are sulphuric.”

Dustbin Diaries -Inua Ellams

Once
upon a time,
a young man gleaned
from an archaic continent creamed
in the light fantastic;
from the borders of history baked
before an African sun
came to this kingdom
of Babylon.

This kingdom became his home.
And as time turned its page
suit followed his age -
this now withered warrior
is whom I see before me.

The way his sits shows
that his toes were once kissed
by born again rain dancers.
You can read the wisdom
in his posture, you can taste it.
With his back straight
face forward, shoulders broad
you can tell that he was made to lord over many;
you can sense the toasts of the past, those-loyal-to-life
casting coats his way.
The dustbin he sits on wears
the ghost formation of a throne cast in light
shown only if you squint with your third eye
and let ether-light loan itself to the moment.

History is grooved in his garments.
The heaviness drags his movements
as chains clink on his collar.
The Mississippi that burns on his right shoulder
is dowsed with the water ways
of Saro Wiwa on his left.
The pride of escaped slaves rises from them
like the steam created when magma hits seawater.
The zest of greatness rests on his chest
gracing all that is he, intoxicating all that is me
culminating in his presence growing, dignity glowing
seven inches past his torn and tattered clothes.

But in the wake of all this glory,
I sense his light dimming towards its close.

So I wish.
I wish for a star studded tobacco leaf
filled with newly made mortal matter
meaning for him to smoke it
and defer the coming of the last latter
so he may live longer
but all that I reap is the wind.

Instead
I reach into my pocket
and retract a handfuls of me
disguised as silver coins
and drop it into the empty coffee cup
beside him “Sir”, I whisper foolishly
trying to use those coins as payment
to the pastures of his spirit. “Sir”, I say
once again, expecting to gain entrance
to the campsites of his soul, “Sir, Old
man, how did it get like this?”

Silence
In the empty seconds that follow
He is still. Like a gathering of mango
farmers awaiting the moon rise
or children, breaths held
awaiting the Griot’s first message
like a choir of pencils
waiting to chorus the words
or wash women of the Nile
awaiting Cleopatra’s descent
He is still.

Then he stirs.

He stirs like a mountain
streaked with silver dread locks
like a black tide coming in
commanding time to witness
one of its many prodigal sons
he stares and says…

“Son,
the world just ain’t big enough no more.
We have devalued the mystery of life
for the values of materialstic living
I am from a time when whole villages mourned
our passing, and now the mass complain
that we live too long.

Son, I am past my die-by date.
These silver pieces of your soul means
that I shall marvel at the moon once more
but it is far too late, move on son
you can do no more.
Just take with you this truth
we are the ‘yous‘ of yesterday.
You will become the ‘wes‘ of tomorrow.
If you do not wish to live on a trash can like this
then you must walk in our shoes today.”

The silence after he speaks
is stone aged.

I walk gently into the night,
thankful to have been kissed
with a vital catalyst
for living happily
ever
after.

Inua Ellams

You can buy the book from Amazon for £4 here.

This is Inua reading the opening poem. Yes, the backing is the Pyramid Song (:

Thirteen Fairy Negro Tales – Inua Ellams

I spun 13 fairy Negro tales that night.
Weighed them on illogic scales
that tipped the balance
and formed an alliance
with my version of the truth,
I uprooted reality and substituted it
for another that had more humanity;
thinking that if I thought hard enough
I’d make it real.

Having so much belief in mind power
I cowered beneath the defunct light
and attempted to bend Saturn’s rings
around my mind.
I did this till the blinds let light in
to wake me from that super sonic slumber.
I swore I was under the influence of lightening
that struck my brain and convinced me I could stain worlds at a time.

But I realised it was just beer and wine.

I found I could dine on the sun
drink the milky-way
let stars sticks to my tongue
clasp Orion around my waist
pluck Pluto, paste him to Mars and run
before Zeus realised I had face-lifted his estate.

I found I could reverse 360
from the 3 point line
and dunk Jupiter in a black hole.
But this divine world existed
only in my soul.

So I held my 13 Negro tales
and made a back bone
swapped it for my own
stood to the wind and dared earth
to spin me off it’s shoulders
not knowing I had soldered my pen to its core
and “ink”- planted a metaphor.

And perhaps this was just in my mind,
but I’d envisioned my self as a poet, so let it be
’cause I write this not for you,
just for me.
I’m trying to make the world a lil’ better
by building bridges out of letters
trying to break the sound barrier and obliterate the colour lines,
’cause I was taught race was in the mind:
You can unwrap the illusions and unwind
to the sound of rainbow drops falling
on all proletarian props.

I speak thus
for I fell in love with an Iranian
girl who complimented my soul.
She had no colour;
just a diamond backbone.
I looked in her eyes and saw five stories
for each tale I owned.
Though we never dated,
she sowed a seed in me
and I reap the fruits regularly
and mix the juice with ink,
so when I write about love
it tends to smell of her.

She is my virtue and my curse.

I guess I’m a fairy tale less now,
guess I have to chill at bus stops
and smoke sess now,
guess I have to trail blaze
and be like “yes now”
to every soul who gazes at me
trying to guess how
I can talk to myself and care less
about the effects of stress.
It’s cause Spokenword is like sex,
The more you listen,
the better it gets.

That’s why on long bus rides,
I close my eyes and try to hear drumbeats
from Nigeria- the mother land calling.
I be like “yes mum, I’m hearing ya”
It’s like some ciphered world
with armies of sounds
and underground cultures
with talon-less vultures
trying to pierce my skin
and place talking drums within.

But Hip Hop takes over
and my head bobs to the beats
of a different soldier
and it’s gotten colder
on this side of thought
’cause now,
I hear dreams money bought.

Driven despondent by this
I close my eyes tighter and
think a little deeper.
I see aquatic worlds
ruled by Soulquarians,
gods that remix bubbles with beats
so we inhale music
swap smiles for CD’s
do voodoo just for the hell of it
and there is no pressure
if you choose to be celibate.

That’s another fairy tale gone.
That’s another scenario
I’d offered to the Sun
to run on Monday mornings
when workers are still torn
between workdays and fun.

A world without guns
when the only people running
are kids chasing nuns
for trying to convert them
when their teeth were still gums. 

But the sun shrugged his shoulders
and shoved my idea where he couldn’t see.
Telling me the cosmos didn’t agree,
telling me humanity needed drama
in order to be free.
So I popped my middle finger
for Martin Luther King,
Seamus Heaney and Palestine’s plea,
’cause you shouldn’t need to suffer
to be granted mercy,
post-depression insurrection
is not a way to be.

But this world exists
between the purple evenings
that serve as backdrops to my reasoning
and nestle hopes of seasoning the world
with constructive dope,
to raise minds to that nexus in the sky
distill the plexus and finally understand
why Tupac, Biggie and Jim Morrison had to die.

I guess I’m more fairy tales less now
guess it’s best if I tell you the rest now;
like how roots are looped through violin strings
and red mists faded yellow yell:
“the last bohemian lives!”…
like how Alice never loved in Never Land
and The last Rebels rise to remix riffs…

But the last fairy story
goes a bit like this:
I sit on a mountain top
with my Iranian scented ink
trace words on winds
sink to blue worlds
drink nectar
and think…

  and
    think.

Inua Ellams

“I am the brown-skinned blue prince to re-rinse reality outta rain puddles like forefathers before me.”

Inua Ellams is a London based poet and a member of the poet collective A Poem In Between People. He has produced a number of tracks so far, the most notable being ‘Thirteen Fairy Negro Tales’ which later went on to become a book featuring what the title would suggest. It’s worth a read if you get the chance and it’s only £4 on Amazon. This is spokenword at it’s best and it’s well worth checking out if you’re new to the genre as well as Musa Okwonga, another member of A Poem In Between People.

“I spun 13 fairy Negro tales that night.
Weighed them on illogic sales
that tipped the balance
and formed an alliance
with my version of the truth,
I uprooted reality and substituted
for another that had more humanity;
thinking that if I thought hard enough
I’d make it real.”

Inua Ellams http://www.myspace.com/phaze05