§
(Esha: 1944 GMT)
Da man runs out wiv a holdall.
And in dat niht as th souls desend, a lite blazed wirling from da house; dey rain down on wet tarmac.
And a deluj of angels brings down th Prezervd Tablit to th North Circuler.
And seventy thozand Angels ech on seventy thozand ropes hawling da gates of Hell to Birmingham.
And Angels of da morning Watch vibrate wid no delay.
Dey shape th Pen cut to shikeste style. To tell his story in finewebbd cursivs sweeping in tidal rinkles across da Book. Or in its airier form, suggesting mountins wiv bird n cliff flower vowels.
We copy da Book alredy writ, and write again. And therin no dout.
Da man runs out of da flat wiv a holdall. And his frends still waiting.
Dey fly th weeping gosts of Wembley.
And Yor servant Sonia banging da weel, and Yor creatur sayin, Son, we can go to Dadi-Ma’s, and Zak saying, Less just get dere.
Somewar up da motaway they mite crash, and da pickny inherit a kilo of smack.
(Taraweeh: 2104 GMT)
By the last juz of Taraweeh.
By th faint muzak an the motaway as th door opens. By th schilds of th Followers and da silens of th Scribes.
And custumers in vacant corners, and Casheer at his counter.
And the intersecting Wings riffling other spectra.
Dere are Jinn in evry servise station.
Your creture tosses Rizlas n draw on da table and stares. And his mobile beeps another text from Aleesha.
That dumm one lookt down, his shaking leg. And Sonia grim. The Casheer looking on, the Caretaker of a qwiet life.
Yor creatur croking:
—Dont ask, man. I dunno. I jus turn up. Don’t ask...Motherffff...
And Sonia:
—Its not yor falt? It’s not yor falt!
Hes thinking, They think I did it. Theyr gonna com looking for me. I am f___d.
And when shes gon to th lobby he sez:
—Wot you bring her for, man?
And dat creture Zak mumbling she was helping.
—I didnt see Snow Wite bustin a gut for us befor. Gotta help ourselvz now. Gotta stick together.
Zack shaking his hed.
—Wot? Wot...! Trust me. I’m a better mate than some...Whas she doing?
There in th corner at da public fones—
—Wat she doing? We gotta go. Sort it out, geezer. Wat da hell you bring her for?
Dat servant clocks th dried scratches across Naseebs face, who fiddles wiv da sports bag, till she com back.
—Hey... Who were you calling?
And Sonia to Zak:
—You must be the only mug he can rope in any mor. Its like Im always trying to keep you strait.
And Naseeb gets in:
—Ain up to you, is it?
—No. Yore riht. Ain up to me... Its just I thot you were doing somthing with yorself, Zak.
And Naseeb gets in:
—Wot’s it got to do with anything anyways? Hes not gonna be a brain surgen. Tchaa!
—Listen, I didnt ask what happend back ther.
—Whod you call?
That servant sez nuffink.
—Whynt 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.
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.
