I’ m god


  • (For the Bleeding at home, in London and in other lands)

I‘m god

I’m Mobutu Sese Seko

Nkuku Ngbendu Wa Za Banga

you must pronounce my name in full, else you breach

my democratic rights

I’m the herr to the fuehrer’s reich

Ich spreche in diktat

You must pronounce my name in full

or go the way of all heretics

I speak not yet of infidels.

I’m god.

I’m baban bajimi Sani Abacha

ka chi bura ubanka in  ka manta suna na

the one for whom the sun-and-moon had to stand still

so he  could  distance himself  far enough

from the cashless society

you must pronounce me pious

to avert a fate of pregnant  fatwahs.

I’m god.

I’m  the blurb of intoxicant books

the blade of  ethnic  bigot fans

the razor end of all reason, marching

like nitwit armies to the beat of Beethoven,

along the  icing on caking cliffs

I’m god.

It is the season of recompense, and

I have followed the slime of the slug around the homestead.

I have tested the axe head of the hurricane

I have peeped at sacred groves where

men have drunk  and hung their gourds

I have searched the thatch hats

atop the huts trodden out by the muddy feet of men

But I have found none

of the hunters who did their  target practice

on the softest undersides of diaper-ed babies

I have found none

of the signatories on the cheques of  bleeding cities

none of the source rocks of the flow of red Thames

I’m god.

I have searched the password hunting limits

of wikileaks’ idealisms. Today’s gatsbys surfing

on foamy peaks of romanticism

topless riders on freedom trains

stopless past the very last busstop

on the bigot’s expedition

to perdition

I’m god.

But those were the udder days that breastfed today

now I’m a mere clothes line

on which men maim and hang their horrors

But google them you find the hidden knives.



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