This is a vignette in search of a writer, a tableau in search of an artist.
Every tooth hurts. Usually I have cavities... now they feel like something the scope of a moon landing vehicle picked up.
The neighbour is playing Stevie Wonder's Fantasy Paradise and I am humming along. No, truth is I am mouthing the words from the hook of Coolio's Gangsta's Paradise. In my fantasy Island I am calling that a fuck you to that old neighbour for being so old... me, I came of age in the nineties.
Now the old boy is playing Otis Redding. Wait a minute, how do I even know this music? I think I am a time traveller.
I just burnt myself with the Rooster cigarette I was smoking. Damn it is stuck to my finger. The middle finger. Now who is getting a fuck you?
*X&^... Wait! The burning cigarette has fallen on the mattress. Looks like it will cause a fire. And maybe these notes will survive. And then I will find fame, lauded as a latter day Beatnik. Nairobi's first and last Situationist.
Posthumously...
Some louts just need to die to make a statement.
I need to pee...
Guess what, you know thing they say that God takes care of drunks and children, watch him now. He just sent me a fire extinguisher: a penis. A penis has never been put to much better use. I mean penises have been known to create life but saving one, now that is new!
“Get on the good foot...” James Brown wails. “Come on...”
But I only have one foot, or so it feels, and it is not a good one. I crash on the smouldering mattress. I am still holding a miraa stick and I continue to chew.
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