The Book of Naseeb. Khaled Nurul Hakim

you use yor fone?

      —I didn ask what happend, but Im not going down for yore dumm s__t.

      —O-oh shhh—

      —If somone’s hurt I want to know.

      —Whynt yu call meat-wagon for me wile yr at it? O-oh Jesus...

      And Your creeture hawls his bag shambling off for th bogs, he can hear her hammering Zak:

      —You bin crawling round him like his som big oracle. Why you give a s__t?

      Ther ar Jinn in every station toilet.

      Da muzak piping into disabled bogs.

      A pinch of skag cooks on foil until it runs. Da slave chasing da penging mettal wiv a straw—

      —a hit of tundra winter in his lungs!

      Left his bones to bleche somware, his trubles in a bin bag.

      And his Protecters dissipate in da penging air.

      His fone buzzing sumwere.

      And a pure wite buraq stands with furled wings in th toilet.

      And he saw himself sat against da toilet sistern, eyes red wiv da start of tears, his soul out on a flood of clemensy.

      Across da false seeling, across da motaway n black fields, th Preservd Tablit broods.