one never imagines to find their body
as part of the night revisions of a poet’s
imagination. yet here i am, living
next to an abandoned cemetery —
the cemeteries of Uswazi have their own lives
outside city council ideals — living outside
& inside the place you’ve come to call conditional.

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Airports are for waiting
pacing, pouting, pissing, prowling &
falling off high-heeled shoes,
leading luggage astray.

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Drawing Lines

For Troy and Chibuihe
I’ve got pigeons in my roof
a friend was robbed the other day
in Nairobi, gun shoved to his ribs
— of law books, money and Arundhati Roy

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A Series of Solitudes

Translated by Roland Glasser
Solitude 61
in my belly there writhes a river,
wretched and lazy, vast and dirty, nasty and bleak,
a river in (advanced) state of dysentery …
Solitude 71
jittery like a dog (?)
bored is the river all day long
whining without knowing why
whining since Babel, since old Noah and his flood
since the prophet Ezekiel, since Sister Abigail …
its snot describes an absurd longevity …

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Deuteronomy or Book of Dust

An excerpt from ‘The Poet of Dust’
in the pantheon of words
P         O         E        T          R        Y               R           U           L           E            S

                                                                                                    in the pantheon of words

POETRY is the wind, the clouds of fragrance, the breeze, the breath of GOD, foul odour, the rotten smell of truth, the monstrous phallus, scrotum of the inner corridors of the vagina, luscious liquids, delicious meal, firm buttocks, inviting thighs, episodic fragments of LUST in love, the secrets of the aphrodisiac, the KAMASUTRA of words, the katap, the kitip, the kurup, the expansion of ambitious climes, the white teeth of the brown ZEBRA, the innocence of

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Hājar in the House of Rust & Other Poems

The Escape Artist Fitness Plan
She says you have a contortionist mouth, always expressing some twist and holding rigidly
your inflexible poise. She says the nameless things, the things you don’t want called –
the Nameless Things; Grief, Hurt, Fury, and a Tenderness which you Hated like a mother
hates her child. Always of you, no matter how feeble, how poorly grown – mewling,
incapable of giving up the ghost, of granting even that little peace. It has all pursued you
your entire life. These Nameless Things. She says you have the eyes of a person who looks
for all exits, finds all doors and at the first kind word goes hurling themselves out of
windows. Break a body, run – the exorcist wants to educate on How the Whole Make
Love. But oh, the tuck and tug! That fine silver hook sliding into corner of mouth, Love
Love is so small,
so small.

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