Great grandson’s Syokimau train ticket dated 2169 A.D

THE TRAIN IS STILL NOT HERE

FIRE EXTINGUISHERS HANGING ON THE WALL

the SHAPE of nozzles

a housefly LANDING on my shoe

A FORTY SHILLING TICKET TO TOWN

At the super subway trainport Syokimau fire in my pockets the downtown to Machakos late evening shuttle finally the arrival of two thousand downtown freaks I walk against them their current of movement for example this man wearing Mohanlal Naran tailored trousers black with split gap/no zip so that in this hot late December his dik can be airy but nobody can see that his pubic hair is dreadlocked and flowing down to his knees like flywhisk dyed cream.

The engines purring like hundred extinct lions mass graves excavated at laying of Beer Hunger Wine Hyena hotel & black-skinned writers only allowed foundation in former national park and the freaks talk in so many goddamned ways jango qawalis nusrat fateh onyango and my childbirth 2nd floor M.P. Shah then a two day old baby my implanted inner ear phones shoot out garbled Mozart allegro Jose Maria Pires soft and gloomy and sad twenty seventh concerto as I walk past all freaks and they were going home and I was going into the blooming cosmopolis cunt of lady Nairobi last trains moving in many underground tracks all blurry fast I can’t see interstellar matatus route Emba44 landing at JKIA and I love all the freaks I walk past she’s wearing streetwalker acacia thorn studded split open at chest blouse drool blue can’t touch her things because they are sharp.

I hate all this city has become like a crude oil in tetrapak in the SubwaY NaivaS underground 250ml and peach flavour with straw attached ready to drink fortified with vitamin C the fuel which set fire to my rape fantasies and sperms and condoms strewn on colonised Mogadishu beaches wide sandy and without seaweed christmas holidays highways from Mogadishu to Nairobi nuetron bomb tests passing by Chalbi Desert lit up with new years fireworks and Kilimani and Westlands and Kangemi III and new Umoja and Donholm with its great poet and sixteen grandchildren who never read Madman all playing in the December rain of light wet with electric because radioactive powerstation at Karen Naivasha the great suburb grown forever and ever lights now never go out, those Syokimau godowns I am leaving behind and the rare December rainfall this late afternoon almost evening and the atom bomb cauliflowered clouds in the sky I don’t see, I am underground.

The forty shilling train ticket I use as bookmark.

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