Nairobi Mutua Matheka


(memory of the trees)

a slip sloshed syrup on the curb.
my feet splat bare with laughter felt,
a roughness grazing at the corners,
furling a little disquiet
among fabric persornas,
the genius ensemble of vicarious performers—
flipping the streets, hastened;
leaping like mantises, long and distilled
in the shadow’s breath; they falter,
still as night, they grin at a crevice—
the mocking window—
they lick the panes—flickering,
their tongues slither—they rub—
inveigling articles luster—they smirk—
haul their coats—they sigh—
pocket their fetish;
commence their trawl, crawl,
scaling window upon window
thin and divine—
drawn out with peeling accuracy,
measured like arenas precisely,
where folk wont race:
only pace, wrap round corners and disappear;
down avenues; down one way streets;
down escalators; down
metro way ways; down balding scalps;
down alleys, gloomy for yellow sentries;
down silent knolls
and roads feeling their way to sea;
down burgeoning windows
craving mantis society.
is there then a phantom pall thrown,
in to satin evenings, blown
to dab the moon’s flickering, teary visage,
afore it is sunk in a great chalice—eerie—rested
at the chin, with reeds growing
slowly crawling,
peeling, like the fingers of a black widow?
it’ll catch at some elevation—his song unwove—
his trousers empty, like a funnel flows,
on a stroll by the yellow lamps—
hunched and miserly stationed
to pay warmth to a search contingent
for the amber stuff, fluff and lint
that believes what the wind blows;
scraps waft and the draft follows
the sanguine lurings of a sea manticore.
Madison! Madison!
he sighs, moves up polls—
consigned to perdition!

my entrechat—
leaping, snapping on the calves,
finally lands on a donkey, ferrying
carbonate chips to folk yonder
the consign of a quiet villager.

bonjour monsieur
oh yes evening sir
traffic flows a little lazy
yes tis a swarm all hazy
whence taketh this journey?
to Madison; hath seen the phony?
sir she is a marvel
aye a marvel
this not a fine night?
aye, indeed my sorrows are finite.

afore her premiere, there reigns a glamour.
people stoop, asleep beneath neon lights,
the evening to hold sway, etherifies
the long vertices; to lull them, edifies
the cords and strings—renders a symphony.
ahh let it rain yellow on your windows
like amber drops imbued in a bakers cast;
let the aroma slip leap—curl in your cavity
fill your coats— slither, infect—
pass out into chimneys perfect.
madison madison where you lay tonight:
is it gentle on your temples?
do they sing?
take me, take me sir presently to Madison,
i am heaves and swells, compelled by song.

merci monsieur good day
aye sir, you tip handsomely !

city city i am here;
hath risen a sphere;
hath brought it up swirling swirling;
hath binden me turning;
hath landed in my waters,
stirring, swirling—
stubborn— a balloon
full— my eyes are full;
chime chime fold up the corners;
beat beat run sorrows down the avenues—
wreak abandon; chase after ventus,
mourn for madison; the wake of zephyrus.

i will tip the theatre’s door man,
head up the stairs cascading a flower—
a yellow follower,
that warms the motion of my heals,
conjures the whirls in my appeals
for the return of Madison
after a night on the kerb twiddling a fright
chaperoned by a slip—taken suddenly a flight
in to cold evening drafts.
madison madison
madison that makes it level;
madison that lays them prostrate,
that brings down the vertices,
unbinds them from the reigns of jaunice,
unravels them from yarns of resin,
molds them on the streets to mellow
in the air bourn effusions—poured—
in her throat charred—
a lone toll in to evening flows,
furls amber veils swung on windows,
once there, feet beneath allowing
their chins on sills, resting
on windows lit by candles.

Poem by Cinx
Photo by Mutua Matheka




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