Salim, Daud, Aziz, Omar, Sayyed
I won’t speak of you tonight
I won’t speak to you tonight
I won’t think of you tonight
I won’t think for you tonight
I have killed my father and my brothers
(the father was silent,
the brothers made a lot of noise)
I have raped my mother and my sisters
(the mother fought till she bled to death,
the sisters gave up halfway down the hallway)
I have poisoned my children to death
(Boy, how they died! how they die!)
I have robbed half my friends,
I have stabbed the half that remained in their backs
And I have played my violin as the first half
fought the second half, and I have clapped,
And I have cheered,
(And I have fucked all the cheerleaders too)
I have been everywhere and I have seen everything
My me rules from the mountaintop and thunders its judgment down
I have sentenced you to death because I have made my Constitution
where I can do so.
My me hovers over the gloomy valley of death
My executioners, as a prick had once said,
have their faces well hidden
I, too, have worn my mask well
Unlike the five of you.
Losers.
I see you, you, you, you and you running, naked
I pelt stones at your dangling genitalia for kicks
you don’t wear masks
you don’t need any
and it doesn’t really matter.
I have unleashed my hounds on you
and those hounds love meat
and I have planted my vines all along the valley
and those vines love blood
and there are silencers hidden in the clouds
that loom on my valley. My. Mine. All mine.
even the clouds are mine
and the silencers that stifle the screams that you scream as you dangle down the noose
and shiver in the chair
and see the bullet approaching with or without thinking of the first time you had seen snow
are all mine.
And the snow you had seen
And the snow you had never seen
And even and you will never see
are mine
and are black with your blood
and the sands are mine
and are black with your blood
and the moon is mine
and is down because lovers are sinners in my valley
and I feed them to my pigs when they are caught.
The stars, of course, are all mine
My army has a garrison of stargazers and star players
who play dirges at your funeral
that, again, is a funny game
the rule is, whoever cries, dies.
I’m sure you know that the mother, the father, the brothers, the sisters, the children, the friend
whose boats I wrecked
were all yours too. So was my rice that once was yours. And so were my maps that you sought to eat when I took your rice.
And so are the walls.
And so is the tiny space that brings you a whiff of breeze, a couple of sunbeams
and a couple of moonbeams.
But the breeze is mine and I cage it so that my demons of iron and steel
can breathe
and so that it doesn’t blow over my valley of death,
which once was your valley of gold. Until I grabbed it and squeezed the breasts of earth
until they ran dry. I plant my poison-vines in her. I let my winds carry my poison to feed them as they sweep through my valley and make my children of pure wrath live
and thus, my winds of venom live
they carried your music across your valley when they were yours.
And now, they help me breed my hatred in my valley.
And thus they make me strong.
And thus they make me happy.
And thus they make me live.
No point running from my long arms
I have caged you in my valley
you know you will die sooner if you seek to break the walls.
and so you stare out of your window
and you look at the sun and the moon
And the sun is mine and I suck its strength to run my demons of iron and steel
and to dry up your fields of gold so that my demons can run, in freedom, through them
(Oh yes, I believe in freedom. My demons are free to waste.)
And the moon is mine and I send my wolves of cloud to eat her up
I strangle the poet who screams – ‘run! moon! run!’
And I hide is corpse beyond your gaze. I can’t bear your gaze.
So,
i) you
ii) you
iii) you
iv) you, and
v) you,
must die.
and the grasshopper that hops inside your cage
and makes you talk to it
is useful now because it tells me how to press my switches
and drop my bombs
and fill my air with my poison
and fill my rivers with your blood
and dry up the sea by piling your corpses atop the poet’s.
so the grasshopper must not die now
but when it stands against my demons
whom I feed your flesh, blood, sweat and cum
it, too, must die.
My demons have smashed the rainbow bridges that joined your gods to you.
(I even call myself Surtr at times because that makes me sound cool as hell.)
You haven’t read the history that I craft for myself
You hardly read the papers that I draft for myself
It’s fun to see two of you, radiated, eating each other
it’s fun to see two of you, starved, eating each other
it’s fun to hear you scream when I pump petrol in your ass
it’s fun to see you die from my chimney-tops, aircrafts, skyscrapers
it makes me happy. It feeds my demons and my hounds and my grasshoppers
and my factories and my buildings and my gardens and my markets and my fields and my crops and my minerals and my buses and my roads and my gold and my steel and my concrete happy.
When the grasshopper’s death makes them this much happy, it, too, shall die.
For now, you must die
Because your death will make me strong
And it will make me happy
And it will make me live
It will make my valley live.
Owing to all the reasons and happenstances mentioned, analysed and dissected hereinabove,
my valley, that once was yours, condemns you to death.
I, who, once, was you, condemn you to death.
